I; 


UNIVftllTV  « 
CAliKM^iA 


•J 


XDucATioi  txn« 


NATIONAL    SERIES.— No.  V 


THE 

NATIONAL 

FIFTH   READEE: 

CONTAININO 

A  TREATISE  ON  ELOCUTION; 

EXERCISES    IN 

READIXG  AND  DECLAMATION; 

WITH 

BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCHES,    AND  COPIOUS   NOTES. 

ADAPTED  TO  THE  USE  OF  STUDENTS  IN 

ENGLISH  Ai\D  AMERICAX  LITERATURE. 

BY 

RICHARD    G.    PARKER,  A.M., 

AND 

J.  MADISON  WATSON. 


NEW    YORK: 

A.  S.  BAENES  &  Co.,  Ill  &  113  WILLIAM  STREET, 

(corner  op  JOHN  STREET.) 

tOU>  BY  BOOUXLLEBS,  eXNKBALLT,  TBB0U6II0UT  THE  TrNirXD  BTATM. 

kv 

1867. 


THE  NEW  EDITION  OF  THIS  BOOK. 


jdsA^  your  bookseller  for  the  New  Edition  of  the 
National  Fifth  Reader,  printed  from  entirely  New 
Plates,  co7itaining  mav/y  a7id  great  improvements  in 
arrangement^  and  with  man/y  additional  selections 
of  great  value,  while  nea^^ly  alt  of  the  old  inatter  is 
retained, 

A.lt?iough  thus  improved  the  book  is  sold  at  the 
same  price,  and,  by  means  of  a  conve9iie?it  index,  can 
be  used  readily  in  the  same  class  with  tlie  Old  Edi^ 
tion. 


Entered,  according  to  act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1S57,  by 

A.    8.   BARNES   &  Co., 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Southern 
District  of  New  York. 


/^  c1mC«  Tt)»^ 


Add  to  Ub« 

GIFT 


PREFACE. 


1^61 


IN  the  preparation  of  tin's  volume,  we  have  aimed  to  make  il  a 
complete  and  sufficient  work  for  advanced  classes  in  Reading, 
Elocution,  and  English  and  American  Literature;  to  furnish,  in 
an  available  form,  such  an  amount  of  biographical,  historical, 
classical,  orthoepical,  and  miscellaneous  matter,  as  to  render  it 
highly  valuable  as  a  book  of  reference ;  and  to  present  a  collec- 
tion of  pieces  so  rich,  varied,  perspicuous,  and  attractive,  as  to 
suit  all  classes  of  minds,  all  times,  and  all  occasions. 

Part  First,  in  two  chapters,  embraces  a  simple,  complete,  and 
eminently  practical  Treatise  on  Elocution.  The  principles  and 
rules  are  stated  in  a  succinct  and  lucid  manner,  and  followed  by 
examples  and  exercises  of  sutBcient  number  and  extent  to  enable 
the  student  thoroughly  to  master  each  point  as  presented,  as  well 
as  to  acquire  a  distinct  comprehension  of  the  parts  as  a  whole. 

In  Part  Second,  the  Selections  for  Reading  and  Declamation 
contain  what  are  regarded  as  the  choicest  gems  of  English  lit- 
erature. The  works  of  many  authors,  ancient  and  modern,  have 
been  consulted,  and  more  than  a  hundred  standard  writers  ol 
the  English  language,  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic,  have  been 
laid  under  contribution  to  enable  the  authors  to  present  a  collec- 
tion, rich  in  all  that  can  inform  the  understanding,  improve  the 
taste,  and  cultivate  the  heart,  and  which,  at  the  same  time,  shall 
furnish  every  variety  of  style  and  subject  to  exemplify  the  prin 
ciples  of  Rhetorical  delivery,  and  form  a  finished  leader  and 
elocutionist.  These  selections  have  been  arranged  in  a  regulaily 
graded  course,  and  strictly  classified  with  regard  to  the  nature  o. 
the  subjects.  Although  we  have  not  been  studious  of  noveltv, 
presenting  only  what  we  regarded  as  suitable,  intrinsically  excel- 
lent, and  most  truly  indicating  the  mode  and  range  of  thought  - 
of  the  writer,  it  will  be  seen  that  a  large  proportion  of  this  col- 
Itjction  is  composed  of  pieces  to  be  found  in  no  similar  work. 

'       374 


/. 


PKKFACK 


Much  care  and  labor  have  been  devoted  to  tlie  orthoepica! 
department.  The  pronunciation  of  all  words  liable  to  be  mis- 
pronounced is  indicated  once  iu  each  paragraph,  or  at  the  bottom 
of  the  page  where  they  occur.  With  respect  to  the  words  about 
the  pronunciation  of  which  orthoepists  diS'er,  we  have  adopted 
the  most  recent  and  reliable  authority. 

Classical  and  historical  allusions,  so  common  among  the  best 
writers,  have  in  all  cases  been  explained;  and  if  the  authois 
have  not  been  deceived,  every  aid  has  been  given  in  the  note^, 
that  the  reader  may  readily  comprehend  the  meaning  of  the 
writer.  This  has  been  done  in  a  manner  more  full  and  satisfac- 
tory than  they  have  seen  in  any  other  collection,  and  in  every 
instance  at  the  bottom  of  the  page  where  the  difficulty  occurs, 
so  that  the  reader  may  not  be  subjected  to  the  trouble  of  turning 
to  an  index,  or  consulting  a  dictionary, — a  work  which,  in  general 
if  done  at  all,  is  done  with  extreme  reluctance,  even  by  advanced 
pupils. 

In  order  that  the  student  may  still  more  thoroughly  under- 
stand what  he  reads,  and  foi-  the  convenience  of  that  large  class 
of  readers  who  have  not  leisure  to  peruse  voluminous  memoirs 
of  distinguished  men,  and  yet  would  be  unwilling  to  forego  all 
knowledge  of  them,  we  have  introduced  concise  Biographical 
Sketches  of  authors  from  whose  works  extracts  have  been  se- 
lected, and  of  persons  whose  names  occur  in  the  Reading  Exer- 
cises. These  sketches,  presenting  a  clear  and  distinct  outline 
of  the  life,  and  producing  a  clear  and  distinct  impression  of  thr 
character,  furnish  an  amount  of  useful  and  available  information 
rarely  surpassed  by  memoirs  of  gieater  extent  and  pretension. 
Lists  of  the  names  of  authors,  both  alphabetical  and  chronolog- 
ical, have  also  been  introduced,  thus  rendering  this  a  convenient 
text-book  for  students  :n  English  and  American  Literature. 


CONTENTS. 


PART   l.-ELOCUTION. 


CHAPTER  I.— ORTHOEPY. 

rACB 

Sbction  T. — Articulation .  lo 

Definitions 15 

Table  of  Oral  Elements 17 

Cognates 18 

Alpliabetic  Equivalents 19 

Spelling  by  Sounds 20 

Errors  in  Articulation 21 

Exercises  in  Articulation 22 

Section  II. — Syllabication 25 

Formation  of  Syllables 25 

Rules  for  the  Formation  of  Syllables 26 

Exercise 27 

Section  III. — Accent 29 

Words  Distinguished  by  Accent 29 

Accent  Changed  by  Contrast 30 

CHAPTER   II.— EXPRESSION. 

Section  I. — E.mhhasis 31 

Rules  for  the  Use  of  Emphasis 32 

Exercises 32 

Section  II. — Slur 35 

Exercises 35 

Section  III. — Inflections 89 

Rides  for  the  Use  of  Inflections 41 

Section  IV.  — Modulation 47 

Pitch 47 

Force ; 50 

Quality 5i 

Rate 5fi 

Section  V. — Monotonb 53 

Exercises 5'.) 

Sbotion  VI.—  Personation 60 

Exercise 60 

Section  VII. — Pauses 61 

Rules  foi  the  Use  of  Pauses 61 

Suspensive  Quan  tity 63 

General  Rule 64 

Exercise 64 


C  )  N  r  K  N  'J'  8 . 

PART  11 -EXERCISES  LN  READING. 

I.     PIECES   IN    PROSE. 

ptoa 

1.  The  Months H.  W.  Beecher.     G7 

8.  On  Hesuling Edward  Gibbon.     76 

4.  Never  Despair 77 

7.  Maternal  Artwtion Scrap  Book.     84 

8.  Shaking  Hands Edzvard  Everett.     85 

10    Peter  Pounce  and  Parson  Adams Jlenry  Fielding.     92 

11.  Noble  Revenge Tlionms  Dt  Quinc^y.     05 

13.   A  Golden  Coppersmith 99 

1 4    The  Hermit  of  Niagara Mrs.  Sigoumey.  102 

It).   Broken  Hearts Washington  (rving.  109 

17.   Broken  Hearts — concluded Ill 

22.  Selected  Extmcts H.  W.  Beecher.  123 

24.  The  Barbarities  of  War Tfrnnas  Chalmers.  1 28 

26.  The  Cost  of  Military  Glory Sidiiey  SmUh.  133 

28.   Biography  of  Jacob  Hays William  Cox.   138 

5^0.  The  Uses  of  History Washington  Irving.   143 

31.   Ancient  and  Modern  Writers Oiarles  Sumner.  145 

33.   Return  of  Columbus W.  11.  Prescott.  148 

35.  (character  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth T.  B.  Macaulay.  153 

36.  Queen  Elizabeth David  Hume.  155 

88.  The  Good  Wife D.  G.  Mitchell.   160 

89.  Scene  with  a  Panther C.  B.  Brown.   163 

41.  Work Thmm  Carlyle.   168 

43.  Study Orville  Dewey.   173 

45.  Wants J.  K.  Paulding.   178 

46.  Wants — continued 180 

47.  Wants— concluded 181 

61.   Letters D  G   .Mitchell.   197 

64.  Washington  and  Napoleon J   T.  I/eadle}/.  205 

67.  Rural  Life  in  England  in  1763 George  limu-rqft.   210 

68.  Panegyric  on  England Edward  Everett.  213 

60.  Sound  and  Sense Robert  Chambers.  21 8 

61.  The  Power  of  Words E.  f    Whipple.  221 

63.  Parallel  between  Pope  and  Dryden Samuel  Johnson.  228 

64.  The  Puritans T.  B.  Macaulay.   231 

66.  Advantages  of  Adversity  to  our  Forefatherg Edward  Everett.  233 

69.  Liberty Orville  Dewey.  241 

72.  Influence  of  Home R.  H.  Dana.  249 

74.  The  Widow  and  h(M-  Son Washington  Irving.  253 

75.  The  Widow  and  lier  Son — concluded 250 

77 .  Glory Francis  Wayland.   262 

79.   Westminster  Abbey Washington  Irving.  267 

80    Westminster  Abbey— concluded 2t)9 

82.  Danit.  Webster Ethcard  Everett.  273 

83.  l);iniel  Webster — concluded 275 

84.  From  a  Historical  Address Dajiiel  Web.<ifer.  277 

87.  Chai  Lce  ag.iinst  Lord  Byron Francis  Jejf'rei/    285 

90.  Vitw  of  tbe  Coliseum Onullr  Pcuo/    2'.»3 

93    Th.'  b.atb  of  HamilU.n Eliph.dei  Noit.  2!H' 


CONTKNTS.  7 

VAQM 

96.  Sklbct  Passages  in  I'rose 800 

1.  Good  Use  <jf  Memory.  II.  Injudicious  Haste  in  Study — 
Locke.      III.  Studies  —  Bacon.      IV.   Books — Channing. 

V.  Tlie  Bible— 7/a/Z. 

96.  Buying  Books. U.  W.  Beecher.  304 

98.  Select  Passages  in  Prose 309 

I.  A  True  Uan— Scott.  II.  A  True  Woman— 5cott.  III.  The 
Power  of  a  Word — Latidor.  IV.  Moral  Force  of  Ex- 
ample— JuJye  McLean.  V.  Law — Hooker.  VI.  Truth 
and  Falsehood — Milton. 

99.  Truth  and  Falsehood Dr.  Johmm.  311 

101 .  Count  Fathom's  Adventure T.  G.  SmolleU.  316 

102.  Count  Fathom's  Adventure — concluded 318 

104.  The  Rjittlesnake W.  G.  Simms.  325 

109.  Shakspeare Zh-.  Johnson.  344 

110.  Hamlet's  Instruction  to  the  Players Shakspeare.  347 

114.  Paul  Flemmiug  Resolves U.  W.  L&ngJ'ellow.  356 

116.  Beauty R.  W.  Emerson.  360 

118.  Death  of  the  Old  Trapper J.  Fennimore  Cooper.  365 

119.  Death  of  the  Old  Trapper— concluded 369 

121.  The  Poet  and  his  Criti(»5 Washington  Allston.  375 

131.  A  Curtain  Lecture  of  Mrs.  Caudle Douglas  Jerrold.  404 

133.  Blennerhassett's  Temptation William  Wirt.  412 

136.  Public  Virtue Ileiiry  Clay.  420 

137.  Washington's  Sword  and  Franklin's  Staff J.  Q.  Adams.  422 

139.  Forest  Trees Washinyton  Irving.  427 

145.  Speech  of  Sergeant  Huzfuz Charles  Dickens.  445 

148.  L!indsc:ii>e  Beauty Francis  Jeffrey.  459 

151.  Elements  of  the  Swiss  Landscape. G.  B.  Cheever.  4()8 

153.  Cicero  at  the  Grave  of  Archimedes R.  C.  Winthrop.  473 

157.  Hymns //.   W.  Belcher.  48^ 

160.  The  St<.len  Ritle Washinyton  Irving.   49b 

161.  The  Tomahawk  submissive  to  Eloquence John  Neal.  499 

162.  Marius  in  Prison Thomas  De  (^uincey.  501 

164.  Select  Pas.sagks  in  Prose 505 

I.  The  Stream  of  Life — Ifel>er.  II.  Life  compared  to  a  River 
—  Davy  III.  hleal  Character  of  Life—/?.  //.  Dana. 
IV.  Mun's  Glory  passeth  away — WatMtn.  V.  Evidence 
of  a  Creator  in  the  Structure  of  the  World — Tillotxon. 

VI.  Nature  pr»»cl!iinjs  a  IXnty — Chateaubriand.    VII.  The 
Blessings  of  Religi()us  Faith — Davy. 

165.  'Y\\e  Unbeliever Chalmers.  510 

168.  The  Resurrection Bible.  514 

170.  Moral  Progress  of  the  American  People W.  II.  Seward.  518 

171.  Selkct  Pas.sages  in  Prosk 522 

1.  Onr  Common  Schools — Everett.  II.  What  Youth  should 
Learn — Hare.  III.  What  Youth  should  be  Taught — 
Lavdor.  IV.  Education  of  the  Heart— Sco^<.  V.  Duty 
— Dckens.  VI.  Air  and  Exercise — lAtndon  Quarterly  Re- 
view. VII.  Pampering  the  Body  at  tlie  Soul's  Ex|>ense 
—Everett.  VIII.  The  Nece.ssity  of  Mental  Labor— &ot/. 
IX.  Aptitude  of  Youth  'or  Knowledge — Brougfuaa. 


8  CONTKNT8. 

rxna 

172.  Tlie  Schoolmaster  and  the  CoiKiiieior fTennf  nroiighum    oL'S 

176.  'I'he  Poet .' //'  />'.    Wulla-t.   540 

178.   Dignity  of  Poetry J.  h.  Xuur.se.  545 

181.   Apostrophe  to  the  Suu //.  Li.   W'oUace.   553 

184.  The  Sea //A".   HW/a<,-e.  558 

V.)0.   Milton 7'  />'.  MucauUty.  675 

1S»1.   Miitou — c:oucln<led 578 

IHG.  liie  Knocking  at  the  Gate,  in  Macbeth Thom/i.'i  De  f^umrry.  5'.>2 

1U7.  Lile 11.  B.  WuLUice.  5i>5 

II.     PIECES    IN    VERSE. 

2  Hymn  tf)  the  Seasons James  Thomson.  71 

5.  l'<Minsy I vaiiia 7'   li.  Rectd.  79 

b.  Siil>l)atli  Morning Jamen  (rrahame.  81 

9.  '1  lie  Uream  of  the  Reveler CItarUs  Muckay.  89 

12.  Life  in  the  West G.  I'.  Morns.  97 

16.  Tlie  Song  of  the  Shirt Thomas  Hood.  100 

18.  Lines  relating  to  Curran's  Daughter Thomas  Mwre.  115 

19.  Thanatopsis W.  C.  IJr>/ant.  116 

20.  Euthanasia W.  G.  CUtrk.  119 

21 .  Sklkct  Passages  in  Verse 121 

1.  Succession  of  Human  Beings.  II.  Death  of  the  Young 
and  Fair  111.  A  Lfidy  Drowned — Procter.  IV.  The 
Life  of  Man — Beaumont.  V.  Coronach — ScoU.  \'l.  Im- 
mortality— R.  II.  Dana. 

23.   Fuller's  Bird B.   W.Procter.  127 

25    liingen  on  the  Rhine Mrs.  Norion.  loO 

29    A  Modest  Wit 141 

32.  The  Poetic  Faculty Gold  I'en.  147 

34.    Destiny  of  America Georye  Berkeley.  1 52 

37.  The  King  and  the  Nightingales Charles  Mackay.  157 

40.   Nature's  Teachings Roltei-l  I'ollok.  1 06 

42.   Now Charles  Mackay.  171 

44.  The  Power  of  Art Charles  Spraym.  176 

48    The  Deserted  Village Oliver  Goldsr'nUh.  183 

49.  'I  he  Deserted  Village— continued 187 

50     Ihe  Deserted  Village — concluded 1 91 

62  The  Settler A.  B.  Street.  200 

63  The  American  Flag JR.  Drake.  202 

55.  Napoleon  and  the  Sphinx Charleys  Mackay.  207 

56.  A  Conipieror's  Account  of  Himself W.  B.  I'riHier.  209 

59,   Language 0.  W.  Ilulmes.  21 6 

62.   F.\  tract  from  the  Essjiy  on  Criticism Alexander  I 'ope.  224 

65.  The  RoiU  of  the  Pilgrims G.  P.  Morris.  2;;3 

67.  'I'he  Orjivi's  of  the  Patriots J.  G.  Perrival  'I'.'A 

68    'Hje  Anti(iuity  of  Freedom W.  C.  Bryant  230 

70.  Lady  Clare Alfred  Tennyson.  243 

71 .  Sklect  pAs.«»AflR9  FN  Vkr«*e , 246 

1.  The  Beauties  of  Nature— /?«i//w.     II.  Beauty— C/av.     HI.  . 

'YhvVoKit     Sluik.speare.    IV.  Flowers — Hunt.    V.  Summer 
\\\\ii\-—Bryant.     Vi.  '1  he  Livst  Rose  of  Sununer— .V.«>/<. 

78.  An  OM  Haunt Iluiu^ehold  H'fW.v.  251 

76.   Piv^sinsr  A  wjiv . John  IHerpoiU.  250 

•78.  The  World  for  Sile, Ralyh  lIoyL  264 


CONTENTS.  9 

PAG> 

81.   A  Great  Man  Departed FJousehold  Words.  272 

8o.    io  the  Evening  Wind W.  C.  Bryant.  281 

88.  Lor.l  Byron Robert  Follok.  287 

89.  Midnii^ht — the  Coliseum Lord  Byron.  291 

91.  The  liying  Gladiator Lwd  Byron.  294 

92.  The  hi'iuiry Charles  Mackay.  296 

94.   Pass  (^n,  Relentless  World George  LtirU.  298 

97.  The  I^iron's  Ltust  Biiinjiiot A.  G.  Greene.  o07 

100.   The  Phantom  Ship 314 

103.   Darkness L&rd  Byron.  322 

106.  Ode  to  Adversity TImms  Gray.  334 

107.  Parrhasius  and  tlie  Captive. , N.  P.  Willis.  336 

108.  Ambition Gold  Pen.  342 

111.  Cardinal  Wolsey,  on  being  cast  olf  by  Henry  VIII. .  .Shak-fpeare.  349 

112.  National  Song R.  T.  Paine    351 

113.  The  Marseilles  Hymn Rougel  de  Lisle.  354 

115.   Procrastination Edward  Young.  359 

1 17.  The  Closing  Year G.  D.  Prentice.  363 

120.  The  Holy  Dead Mrs.  Siyoumey.  374 

122.  To  a  Skylark P.  B.  SJielley.  378 

124.  Bernardo  del  Carpio Mrs.  Henians.  384 

125.  Select  Pas.s.agks  in  Vkrsb 387 

1.  Patriotism — SscoU.    II.  Ambition  —5yron.    III.  Independ- 
ence— Thomson.      IV.  The  Captive's  Dreams — Mrs.  Ilem- 
ans.     V.   William  Tell— />Vv<zni.     VI.  Tell  on  Switzer- 
land—  Knonies.      VII      How   sleep    the    Miave — Collim. 
<  VIII.  The  Greeks  at  Thermopy lie — Byron. 

126.  Greece Ijord  Byron.  391 

127.  Sons?  of  the  Greeks,  1822 Thaimus  CampbeU.  SiM 

128.  Marco  P»ozz;iris FUz-Greene  llalleck.  395 

132.  Select  Passages  in  Veusb 407 

I.  Exhortation  to  Courage.  II.  Fame — Pope.  III.  Value 
of  Ucputiition — S]iukspeare.  IV.  Pleasure — Burns.  V. 
Pleasure — Voung.  VI.  'lime  never  retmns.  VII.  In- 
gratitude—iSA'/^.^Jft/rc.  VIII.  Severity  and  Gentleness 
— Gobi  I'en.     IX.  Mercy — Shakspeare.     X.  Man — Young. 

134.  Battle  of  Warsaw Th&nuis  CampbeU.  415 

138.  A  Forest  Nook A.  B.  Street.  424 

140  God's  First  Temples W.  C.  Bryant.  430 

141  Trust  in  G(kI Wiiliam  Wordrworth.  433 

143.  The  Mus(|uit(j W.  C  Bryant.  441 

144.  A  Tailor's  Evening  Soliloquy 0.  W.  Holmes.  444 

146.  Select  Passages  in  Vkrsb. 449 

I.  Early  Dawn  —  Shelley.  II.  Daybreak — Atlantic  Monthly. 
III.  Daybreak — Shelley.  IV.  Sunrise  in  S.  America — 
Bowles.  V.  Dawn— IfiZZw.  VI.  Morning— JMon.  VII. 
Morning  on  the  Rhine — Bowles.  VIII.  Morning  Sounds 
— Beattie.     IX.  Early  Rising — Hurdis. 

147    SELK<rr  Passages  in  Verse 454 

I.  Invocation  to  Night — J.  F:  Hollings.  II.  Evening— OoZy. 
III.  W\)X.hi— II  Coleridge.  IV.  Niffht  at  Corinth— Z?y /on. 
V.  A  Summer's  Night— P.  J.  Bailey.  VI.  Niirht  aud 
Death  -/.  B.  White.  VII.  Kv^hi-^SheUey .  Vlll.  The 
M(K>u-    fViarlutte  StrJtk.     IX    The  Stars — Darwin. 


10  0ONTKNT8. 

PAflK 

149.  Kiliimnifljaro Bayard  Taylor.  4G2 

160.  Mornitig  H>  imi  to  Mont  Blanc S.  T.  Coleridge.  4G5 

162.  Alpine  Scoutny Lord  Byron.  470 

164.  Messiah Alexaiukr  Pope.  477 

166    Selkct  Passages  in  Vekse 483 

I.  Voice  of  the  Wind — Henry  Taylor.  II.  Ministrations  of 
Nature — Vmeridge.  III.  Moonlight — Shakapeare.  IV. 
The  Bell.**  of  Oatend— Bowles.  V.  Slusic — Shakspeare. 
VI.  Music — Shelley.     VII.  Pastoral  Music — Byron. 

158.  The  Passions William  CoUins.  489 

W,).  Alexander's  Feast John  Dryden.  493 

166.  Hamlet's  Soliloquy Sluikspeare.  510 

167.  Cato's  Soliloquy Joseph  Addvsm.  511 

169    Hope  Triumphant  in  Death Thomas  Campbell.  516 

173.  The  Famine H.  W.  Longfellow.  530 

176.  Address  to  the  Indolent. James  Thomson.  638 

177.  To  the  Spirit  of  Poetry Frances  Osgood.  543 

179.  The  Spirit  of  Poetry J.  G.  Percival.  547 

180.  The  Bells Edgar  A.  Foe.  549 

182.  Apostrophe  to  the  Sun J.G.  Fercival.  554 

183.  The  Ocean F.  H.  Dana,  bbl 

185.  Apostrophe  to  the  Ocean Lord  Byron.  560 

187.  The  Raven Edgar  A.  Foe.  565 

192.  Hymn  of  our  First  Parents MiUm.  581 

1 94.  Satan's  Encounter  with  Death MiUm.  586 

198.  Elegy  written  in  a  Country  Church-yard Thomas  Gray.  697 

III.     DIALOGUES. 

27.  Lochlel's  Warning Thomas  Campbell.  134 

86.  Gil  Bias  and  the  old  Archbishop Alain  Le  Sage.  282 

106.   Roger  Ascham  and  Lady  Jane  Grey W.  S.  Landor.  330 

123.  Norval .John  Home.  381 

129.  Conversations  after  Marriage R.  B.  Sheridan.  398 

130.  Conversations  after  Marriage — concluded 401 

135.  Scene — Hamlet  and  his  Mother Shakspeare.  416 

142.  Scene  from  the  Lady  of  Lyons E.  B.  Lytton.  436 

155.  Scene  from  Catiline George  Croly.  479 

163.  Scene  from  King  Richard  III Shak)<penre.  502 

174.  Abraham  and  the  Fire- Worshiper Household  Words.  535 

186.  Brutus  and  Titus Nathaniel  Lee.  562 

188  The  Saracen  Brothers New  Monthly  Magazine.  569 

189  The  Saracen  Brothers— concluded  . . , 672 

193.  The  Phrensy  of  Orra. . . Joanna  BaiUie.  683 

195.  Murder  6 "  King  Duncac    ...      Sluikspeare.  688 


ALPHABETICAL   JSl  OF  AUTHORS.' 


Adams,  John  Q.,  422. 

Addison,  Joseph,  511. 

Allston,  Washington,  875. 

Bacon,  Francis,  301. 

BA1I.KY,  P.  J.,  456. 

Baillie,  Joanna,  583.  *" 

Bancroft,  George,  210. 

Beattie,  James,  246,  452. 

Beadmont,  Francis,  122. 

Beecher,  H.  W.,  67, 123,  304,  486. 

Berkeley,  George,  152. 

Bowles,  W.  L.,  450,  452.  484- 

Brougham,  Henrt,  527,  523. 

Bfown,  C.  B.,  168. 

Bryant,  W.  C,  116,  242,  248,  281, 

889,  430,  441. 
Burns,  Robert,  408. 
Byron,  G.  G.,  291,  294,  822,  888,  891, 

455,  470,  486,  560. 
Campbell,  Thos.,  134,  894,  416,  516. 
Carlyle,  Thomas,  168. 
Chalmers,  Thomas,  128,  510. 
Chambers,  Robert,  218. 
Channino,  W.  E.,  802. 
Chateaubriand,  F.  A.,  509. 
Cheever,  G.  B.,468. 
Clam,  Willis  G.,  119. 
Clay,  Henry,  420. 
Coleridge,  Hartley,  455. 
Coleridge,  S.  T.,  465,  488. 
Collins,  William,  890,  489. 
Cooper,  J.  Fennimore,  865,  869. 
Cox,  William,  138. 


Croly,  George,  4.'>4,  479. 

Dana,  R.  H.,  128,  249,  506,  557. 

Darwin,  Erasmus,  459. 

Davy,  Humphrey,  506,  509. 

De  Quincey,  Thomas,  95,  501,  592. 

Dewey,  Orville,  173,  244,  298. 

Dickens,  Charles,  445,  525. 

Drake,  J.  R.,  202. 

Dryden,  John,  493. 

Kmkr-^on,  R.  W.,  360. 

Everett,  Edward,  85,  213,  288,  273, 

275,  522,  526. 
Fielding,  Henry,  92. 
Gay,  John,  247. 
Gibbon,  Edward,  T5. 
Goldsmith,  Oliver,  188, 187,  191. 
Grahame,  James,  81. 
Gray,  Thomas,  834,  597. 
Greene,  Albert  G.,  807. 
Hall,  Robert,  803. 
Halleck,  Fitz-Grkenb,  895. 
Hare,  C.  J.  &  A.,  524. 
Headley,  J.  T.,  205. 
Heber,  Reginald,  505. 
Hemans,  Mrs.,  884,  383.    " 
hollings,  j.  f.,  454. 
Holmes,  0.  W.,  216,444. 
Home,  John,  881. 
Hood,  Thomas,  106. 
Hooker,  Richard,  810. 
Hoyt,  Ralph,  264. 
Hume,  David,  155. 
Hunt,  Leigh,  247. 


'  The  nnmbers  here  given  refer  to  Selectiona 
CbroBological  List  of  Authors. 


For  Biographical  8keteh8& 


12 


ALPHABETICAL    LIST    OF    ACTU(^R8. 


FIuHDis,  James,  458. 

Ikvino,  W.,  109,  111,  148,  258,  256, 

267,  2»i9,  427,  498. 
Jkffrky,  Francis,  285,  459. 
J  ERROLD,  Douglas,  404. 
Johnson,  Samuel,  228,  311,  844. 
K>fowLEs,  J.  S.,  389. 
J. AN  DOR,  W.  S.,  309,  830.  524. 
liEK,  Nathaniel,  562. 
Le  Sage,  Alain,  282. 
Locke,  John,  300. 
Longfellow,  H.  W.,  856,  530. 

LUNT,  (lEORGE,  298. 

Lttton,  E.  B.,  436. 

Macaulay,  T.  B.,  158,  231,  675,  .51  8. 

Mackay,  Chas.,  89,  157,  171,  207,  296. 

McLean,  John,  310. 

MiLT«.N,  John,  311,  451,  581,  586. 

Mitchell,  D.  G.,  160,  197. 

MouuE,  Thomas,  115,  248. 

i.\IoRnis,  G.  P.,  97,  238. 

Keal,  John,  499. 

Norton,  Caroline  E.,  180.  *" 

Nt)TT,  Eliphalet,  296. 

Nouuse,  J.  D.,  545. 

Osgood,  Frances  S.,  548. 

Paine,  R.  T.,  351. 

Paulding,  J.  K.,  178,  180,  181. 

Percival,  J.  G.,  236,  547,  '854. 

J'lEKPONT,  John,  259. 

P»>E,  Edgar  A.,  549,  565. 

PoLLOK,  Robert,  166,  287 

Pope,  Alexander,  22^  408,  477 

Pbkntice.  G.  D.,  868. 


Prescott,  W.  H.,  148,  239. 

Procter,  B.  W.,  121,  127,  209. 

Read,  T.  Buchanan,  79. 

RouGET  DE  Lisle,  854. 

Scott,  Walter,  122,  3()9, 887,  525,  527 

Seward,  William  H.,  518. 

Shakspeare,  Wm.,  247,  347,  849,  408, 

410,  416,  484,  485,  502,  510,  588. 
Shelley,  P.  B.,  878, 449, 450, 458, 485. 
Sheridan,  R.  B.,  898,  401. 
Sigourney,  Mrs.,  102,  874. 
SIMMS,  W.  G.,  825. 
Smith,  Charlotte,  458. 
Smith,  Sidney,  183. 
Smollett,  T.  G.,  816,  818. 
Sprague,  Charles,  176. 
Street,  A.  B.,  200,  424. 
Sumner,  Charles,  145. 
Taylor,  Bayard,  462. 
Taylor,  Henry,  4S8. 
Tennys^on,  Alfred,  243. 
Thomson,  James,  71,  888,  588. 
Tillotson,  John,  508. 
Wallace,  H.  B.,  540,  558,  558,  595 
Watson,  Richard,  507. 
Wayland,  Fbancib,  262. 
Webster,  Daniel,  277. 
Whipple,  E.  P.,  221. 
White,  J.  Blanco,  457. 
Willis,  N.  P.,  336,451. 
WiNTHROP,  R.  C,  478. 
Wirt,  William,  412. 
Wordsworth,  William,  488. 
Voc;iiG,  Edward,  859,  409.  411. 


CHRONOLOGICAL  LIST  OF  AUTIKRS.' 


Hooker,  KicHARD 310 

Bacon,  Francw 213 

Bhakspeark,  W  iixiam 348 

Bk/-jmont,  Franois 122 

Milton,  John 582 

TnxoTsoN,  John 508 

Dryden,  John 497 

Locke,  John 213 

Lee,  Nathaniel 665 

Le  Sage,  Alain 285 

Addison,  Joseph 513 

Young,  Howard .* 860 

BeRKELKT,  (iEORUK ' 152 

Gay,  John 247 

Pope,  Alkxander 227 

Thomson,  James 75 

Fielding,  H  enry  . . , 95 

Johnson,  Samuel 230 

Hume,  David.... 157 

Gray,  Thomas 835 

Collins,  William 4^2 

Smollett,  T.  G 822 

Home,  John 884 

Goldsmith,  Oliver 196 

Daijwin,  Erasmus 459 

Beattie,  James 452 

Gibbon,  Edward 77 

Watson,  Richard 507 

Smith,  Charlotte 458 

Sheridan,  K.  B 404 

Burns,  Robert 408 

Kouget  de  Lisle 855 


Bowles,  "W.  L 450 

Baillie,  Joanna 586 

HcRDis,  James 453 

Hall,  Robert 30? 

Grahame,  James 84 

Adams,  John  Q 424 

Smith,  Sidney 1 34 

Chateaubriand,  F.  A 509 

Wordsworth,  Willlam 4? 5 

Scott,  Walter t<'9 

Brown,  C.  B 166 

Coleridge,  S.  T 467 

WlUT,  W  ILLIAM 414 

Jeffrey,  Francis 237 

NoTT,  Elipualet 29^ 

Paine,  R.  T 854 

Landor,  W.  S....." 333 

Campbell,  Thomas 137 

Clay,  Henry 421 

Davy,  Humphrey 506 

Paulding,  J.  K 183 

Allston,  Washington 377 

Brougham,  Henry 530 

Chalmers,  Thomas 130 

Channino,  W\  E 302 

Moore,  Thomas 115 

White,  J.  Blanco 457 

Webster,  Daniel 280 

Hkber,  Reginald 505 

Irving,  Washington 114 

Hunt,  Leigh 247 

Pierpont,  John 26] 


*  The  numbers  here  piven  refer  to  Biographical  Sketcliea,     For  Belectlona,  set 
Alphabetical  List  of  Authors. 


14 


CHRONOLOGICAL    LI8T    OF    AUTHORS. 


Dk  QuiNOKY,  Thomas 97 

Dana,R.H 251 

Btron,  G.  G 292 

Cooper,  J.  Fennimore 873 

SiGouRNEY,  Mrs 106 

Sprague,  Charles 177 

Shelley,  P.  B 880 

Hemans,  Mrs 887 

Bryant,  W.  C 118 

Dewey,  Orville 176 

Everett,  Edward 89 

Neal,  John 601 

Percival,  J.  G 288 

Procter,  B.  W 128 

Halleck,  Fitz-Greene 897 

Drake,  J.  K 204 

Croly,  George 454 

Carlyle,  Thomas 170 

Coleridge,  Hartley 455 

Knowles,  J.  S 889 

PRESCOTT,  W.  H 151 

Wayland,  Francis 264 

Hood,  Thomas 109 

McLean,  John 810 

PoLLOK,  Robert 167 

Taylor,  Henry 483 

Hare,  C.J.  &  A 624 

Bancroft,  George 212 

Chambers,  EoBERT 220 

HoLLiNOs,  J.  F. 454 

Morris,  G.P 98 

Macauijiy,  T.  B 166 

Seward,  William  H 6S2 


Cox,  William 141 

Greene,  Albert  G 808 

Prentice,  G.  D 865 

Emerson,  R.  W 862 

Jerrold,  Douglas 407 

LuNT,  George 299 

Bailey,  P.  J 456 

Lytton,  E.  B 441 

SiMMs,  W.  G 830 

Willis,  N.  P 841 

Cheever,  G.  B 470 

Longfellow,  H.  W 858 

Norton,  Caroline  E 132 

Holmes,  O.W 217 

WiNTHROP,  R.  C 477 

Clark,  W^illis  G 120 

Tennyson,  Alfre:^ 246 

PoE,  Edgar  A 552 

Sumner,  Charles 146 

Street,  A.  B 202 

Dickens,  Charles 448 

HoYT,  Ralph 266 

Mackay,  Charles 91 

NouRSE,  J.  D 647 

Osgood,  Frances  S 545 

Beecher,  H.  W 71 

Headley,  J.  T 207 

Wallace,  H.  B 542 

Whipple,  E.  P 224 

Mitchell,  D.G., 162 

Read,  T.  Buchanan 81 

f  AYLOR,  Bayaju> 464 


THE 

NATIONAL  FlFm  READER. 


PART  I. 

ELOCUTION. 
Elocution  is  the  delivery  of  extemporaneous  or  written 
composition.     It  embraces  Orthoepy  and  Expression. 

We  say  of  elocution^  it  is  good  or  bad ;  clear,  fluent,  or  melo- 
tlious ;  though  it  is  often  used  as  nearly  synonymous  with  elo- 
quence,  the  act  of  expressing  thoughts  with  elegance  and  beauty. 


CHAPTER   I. 

ORTHOEPY. 
Orthoepy  is  the  art  of  correct  pronunciation.     It  em- 
braces Articulation,  Syllabication,  and  Accent. 

Section  I. — Articulation. 
Definitions. 

1.  Articulation  is  the  distinct  utterance  of  the  Oral 
Elements,  in  syllables  and  words. 

2.  Oral  Elements  are  the  sounds  that,  uttered  sepa- 
rately or  in  combination,  form  syllables  and  words. 

3.  Elements  are  produced  by  different  positions  of 
the  organs  of  speech,  in  connection  with  the  voice  and 
the  breath. 


16  NATIONAL    FIFIII    RKADflU. 

4-.  The  principal  Organs  of  Speech  are  the  H})8,  teeth, 
tongue,  and  palate. 

5.  VoicK  rs  PRODUCED  by  the  action  of  the  breath  upon 
the  hirynx.^ 

6.  Elements  are  divided  into  three  classes:  eighteen 
Tonics^  fifteen  Subttynics^  and  ten  Atonies. 

7.  Tonics  are  pure  tones  produced  by  the  voice,  with 
but  slight  use  of  tJie  organs  of  speech. 

8.  SuBTONics  are  tones  produced  by  the  voice,  modified 
by  the  organs  of  speech. 

9.  Atonics  are  mei'e  breathings,  modified  by  the  or- 
gans of  8})cech. 

10.  Vowels  are  the  letters  that  usually  represent  the 
Tonic  elements,  and  form  syllables  by  themselves.  They 
are  «,  ^,  t,  o,  u^  and  sometimes  y. 

11.  A  Diphthong  is  the  union  of  two  vowels  in  one 
syllable ;  as,  oi  in  6>^l,  ou  in  ouv. 

12.  A  Digraph,  or  improper  diphthong,  is  the  union 
of  two  vowels  in  a  syllable,  one  of  whicli  is  silent;  as, 
oa  in  \oai. 

13.  A  Triphthong  is  the  union  of  three  vowels  in  one 
By  liable;  as,  eau  in  heau^  ieu  in  Q.diieu. 

14.  Consonants  are  the  letters  that  usually  represent 
either  Subtonic  or  Atonic  elements.  They  are  of  two 
kinds,  single  letters  and  combined,  viz. :  b,  c,  d,  f,  g,  h, 
j,  k,  1,  m,  n,  p,  q,  r,  s,  t.  v,  w,  x,  y,  z;  fli  Subtonic,  th 
Atonic,  ch,  sh,  wh,  ng. 

Tlie  term  Consonant,  literally  meaning  soundinr/  wif\  is  ap- 
plied to  these  letters  and  combinations  because  they  are  rarely 
jsed  in  words  without  having  a  vowel  connected  with  them  in 
Jie  same  syllable,  although  their  elements  may  be  uttered  sepa- 
tvitely,  and  without  the  aid  of  a  vowel. 

I'i.  .Cognates  are  letters  whose  elements  are  produced 
hy  l\i3  same  organs,  in  a  similar  manner;  thus,/*  is  u 
cogn'ite  of  -y ;  k  of  (/,  &c. 

*  Ylie  larynx  Is  the  upper  jwirt  of  tlie  trai'-hea,  or  windinpe. 


ORAL    ELEMENTS.  17 

16.  Alpha^betic  Equivalents  are  letters,  or  combina- 
tions of  letters,  that  represent  tlie  same  elements,  or 
sounds ;  thus,  i  is  an  equivale7it  of  e,  in  pzque. 

Okal  Elements. 

1.  In  sounding  the  tonics,  the  organs  should  be  fully  opened, 
and  the  stream  of  sound  from  the  throat  should  be  thrown,  as 
much  as  possible,  directly  upward  against  the  roof  of  the  mouth. 
These  elements  should  open  with  an  abrupt  and  explosive  force, 
and  then  diminish  gradually  and  equably  to  the  end. 

2.  In  producing  the  subtonic  and  atonic  elements,  it  is  impor- 
tant to  press  the  organs  upon  each  other  with  great  firmness  and 
tension ;  to  throw  the  breath  upon  them  with  force ;  and  to 
prolong  the  sound  sufficiently  to  give  it  a  full  impression  on 
the  ear. 

3.  In  addition  to  the  observance  of  the  above  directions,  pu- 
pils should  be  required  to  assume  an  erect  posture,  either  stand- 
ing/ or  seated,  and  to  keep  a  full  supply  of  air  in  the  lungs,  while 
uttering  the  elemental  sounds,  as  arranged  in  the  following 

Table  of  Oral  Elements.^ 


1. 

Tonics. 

a, 

as  in 

hrt, 

^rm. 

or 

a, 

as  in  age, 

ate. 

a, 

(( 

All, 

ball. 

or 

4, 

(( 

kt, 

land. 

d,^ 

a 

bare, 

care. 

'  First  require  the  pupils  to  utter  an  element  by  itself,  then  to  pro- 
nounce distinctly  the  words  that  follow,  uttering  the  element  after  each 
word — thus:  kge,k;  kte,k:  dt,  &  ;  h\nd,  i,  &c.  Exercise  the  class  ui)()n 
the  above  tal)le.  till  each  pupil  can  utter  consecutively  all  the  Oral  ele- 
ments. The  attention  of  the  class  should  be  called  to  the  fact  that  tlie 
fiist  element,  or  sound,  represented  by  each  of  the  vowels,  is  usually 
indicated  by  a  horizontal  line  placed  over  the  letter,  and  the  second 
sound  by  a  curved  line.  After  each  pupil  can  utter  correctly  all  the  ele- 
ments as  arranged  in  the  table,  numerous  class  exercises  may  be  fornusd 
by  prctixing  or  atHxing  Subtonics  or  Atonies  to  the  Tonics,  in  the  follow- 
ingorder :  Bi,  bi\,  b^,  ba,  b^,  b&  ;  hh,  b§,  hh  ;  bi,  b! ;  bo,  bo,  J>o  ;  bu.  bu. 
bu  ;  bou  :  kh.  &b,  S,b,  ab,  &c.  These  exercises  will  be  found  of  gieat 
value,  to  impj-ove  the  organs  of  speech  and  the  voice,  as  well  as  to 
familiaiize  the  pupil  with  different  combinations  of  sounds. 

''I'iie  fifth  element,  or  sound,  represented  by  a,  is  lis  first  or  Alphabetic 
wound,  uiodiHed  or  softened  by  r. 

2 


18 


NATIONAL    Firm    KEADKR. 


A,' 

MS  Id  ^k, 

glass. 

n, 

as  in 

^laine. 

nine. 

e  or  ^, 

"     he, 

these. 

'»^9^ 

41 

^^^9^ 

san^. 

e  or  ^, 

«     ^Ik, 

^nd. 

r,^ 

U 

rake. 

ba/*. 

¥ 

"     h§r, 

verse. 

fli, 

(( 

fliis. 

wifli. 

f  or  i, 

"     ice, 

child. 

% 

U 

?;ine. 

-yice. 

1  or  !, 

"     ink, 

inch. 

10, 

u 

«^?ake, 

W\^Q, 

6  or  6, 

"     old. 

h6me. 

y^ 

u 

yard. 

yes. 

6  or  6, 

"     on, 

bond. 

*^i 

a, 

2  est. 

ga^e. 

5, 

"     do. 

prove. 

2, 

a 

azure. 

glazier. 

u  or  ti, 

"     cube 

,  cure. 

u  or  u, 

"     bud. 

h&sh. 

3.  Atonics. 

i, 

"     full. 

push. 

/ 

as  in 

/ame. 

/•/e. 

ou, 

"     owr. 

hou^e. 

A, 

u 

Aark, 

Aarm. 

k, 

u 

X'hid, 

A:iss. 

2.    SUBTONICS. 

P^ 

(( 

p\pe, 

^umj9. 

J,    as  in    bahii, 

ovb. 

*, 

(i 

5anie, 

^en^e. 

d,       " 

did^ 

dim. 

t. 

(( 

^ari{. 

tOSiSt. 

9.       " 

9^9^ 

9^9' 

th, 

cc 

^Aank, 

yoxith. 

i.     " 

join, 

jo'mt. 

ch, 

u 

cAase, 

IP.  arch. 

I.     " 

Zake, 

Zane. 

sh, 

u 

,9Aade, 

^Aake. 

7/1,        " 

mild, 

mind. 

wh, 

u 

2^7Aale, 

wjAite. 

Cognates. 

First  require  the  pupil  to  pronounce  distinctly  the  word  contiiining 
the  Atonic  element,  then  the  Subtonic  Cognate,  utteiing  the  element 
after  each  word — thus:  lip,  p;  orb,  6,  &c.  The  attention  of  the  pupil 
should  be  called  to  the  fact  that  Cognates  are  proiluced  by  the  siime 
organs,  in  a  similar  maimer,  and  only  differ  in  one  being  an  undertone, 
and  the  other  a  whisper. 

Atonics.  Subtonics. 

li^>,        p or^,      b. 

/i/e,     /.      .....     -yase,    v. 


'  The  sixth  element  represented  by  a,  is  a  wnmd  intermediate  between 
a,  as  heard  in  at,  ash,  and  a,  as  in  ann,  art. 

''I'he  third  element  represented  by  e,  is  c  a&  heard  in  end,  modified  oi 
softened  by  r.  It  is  also  represented  by  »,  o,  u,  and  y;  as  in  bird,  word, 
burn,  mj/rrh. 

•  U  may  be  trilled  before  a  vowel.  In  that  ciise,  the  tip  of  the  tongue 
Ib  made  rapidly  to  vibratt> 


ALPHABKTIO    KQ'JIVALENTS.  IB 

wlutQ^   wh wise,  w, 

.save,     .«? seal,  s. 

«Aade,   sh azure,  z. 

charm,  ch i<>iiS  j- 

tart,      t d\d,  d, 

tKmg  th,     .     .     .     .     .  fliis,  fli. 

^n^,     k gigy  g. 

Alphabetic  Equivalents. 
1.   Tonic  Elements. 

For  a,  aa,  ai,  au,  ay,  e,  ee,  ea,  ei,  ey ;  as  in  Aarony 
^ain,  gauge,  stray,  vaelee',  great,  vein,  t\\ey. 

For  a,  ai,  ua ;  as  in  pla^d,  guaranty. 

For  a,  au,  e,  ea,  ua'y  as  in  hawnt,  sergeant,  h^art, 
gward. 

For  d,  au,  aw,  eo,  o,  oa,  ou;  as  in  iault,  hawk,  G«t>rge, 
\iork,  broad,  hou^it. 

For  a,  ai,  e,  ea,  ei;  as  in  ohair,  th^re,  sw^r,  \\eir. 

For  h,  ea,  ee,  ei,  eo,  ey,  i,  ie,'  as  in  read,  deej^,  c^^l, 
people,  key,  vah'se,  iield. 

For  ^,  a,  ai^  ay,  ea,  ei,  eo,  ie,  u,  us;  as  in  any,  aaid, 
8«ys,  head,  heater,  leopard,  friend,  hury,  gwess. 

For  ^,  ea,  i,  o,  ou,  u,  ue,  y ;  as  in  earth,  girl,  word, 
scoi^rge,  bwrn,  g?*erdon,  ni^/rrh. 

For  i,  ai,  ei,  eye,  ?*e,  <>i,  ui,  uy,  y,  ye  ;  as  in  aMe,  sleight, 
eye,  die,  chozr,  gwide,  huy,  my,  rye. 

For  !,  ai,  e,  ee,  ie,  o,  oi,  u,  ui,  y ;  as  in  captam,  pretty, 
been,  sieve,  women,  tortozse,  b-^^sy,  huiXd,  hymn. 

For  6,  au,  eau,  eo,  ew,  oa,  oe,  oo,  ou,  ow ;  as  in  haut- 
boy,  heau,  yeoman,  sew,  coal,  foe,  door,  soul,  hlow. 

For  6,  a,  ou,  ow  /  as  in  what,  howgh,  knowledge. 

For  6,  ew,  oe^  oo,  ou,  u,  ui;  as  in  grei^,  shoe,  spoon, 
Bowp,  r'wde,  tr?/2t. 

For  u,  eau^  eu,  ew,  ieu^  iew,  ue,  ui;  as  in  heauty,  ieud^ 
nev),  adieu^  vieio,  hue,  ]uiee. 

F«»r  u,  o,  oe,  (Hj,  ou ;  as  in  love,  does,  blood,  yoi^ng. 


20  NATIONAL    FIP^TH    READER. 

For  u,  <9,  00,  mc;  wolf,  hook,  coidd. 
For  on,  ow/  as  in  now. 
For  oi  (ai),  oy;  as  in  hoi/. 

2.     SUBTONIC    AND    AtONIC    ELEMENTS. 

For  f,  gh,2>h;  as  in  cough,  nymph. 
For  j,  g;  as  in  ^^m,  ^n. 

For  k,  c,  ch,  gh,  q;  as  in  cole,  concA,  lon^A,  etij^nette. 
For  s,  c  j  as  in  cell. 

For  t,  d.  th,i)hth;  as  in  danced,  jTAames,  ^A^Aisic. 
For  y,f,ph;  as  in  of,  Ste/?Aen. 
For  J,  ^/  as  in  pin^on. 
For  z,  c,  8,  X  ;  as  in  suffice,  ro^e,  a?ebec. 
For  z,  g,  s  j  as  in  rou^e,  o.*?ier. 
For  ng,  n;  as  in  a;iger,  ba^i-k. 
For  ch,  t;  as  in  fustian. 

For  sh,  c,  ch,  s,  ss,  t;  as  in  ocean,  cAaise,  «ure,  assure, 
martial. 

Spelling  by  Sounds. 

Tlie  following  words  are  arranged  for  an  exercise  in  Spelling,  by 
sounds.  The  names  of  the  letters  are  not  to  he  given  ;  but  the  elements 
are  to  be  produced  separately,  and  then  pronounced  in  connection,  thus  : 
V  &  s  t,  pronounced  vast ;  S  r  m — arm  ;  h  6  s  t — host ;  m  6  v — move,  &c. 
The  attention  of  the  pupil  should  be  especially  directed  to  silent  letters, 
or  those  that  are  not  sounded  in  words  where  they  occur.  In  the  fol- 
lowing exercise  they  appear  in  italics.  We  would  impress  it  especially 
ujwn  the  teacher,  that  the  best  way  to  secure  a  distinct  and  forcible  ar- 
ticulation is  to  give  the  pupil  a  daily  exercise  of  this  kind. 


save, 

wave. 

mt. 

man. 

Irm, 

pc^rt. 

UU, 

warm. 

pare, 

tare. 

gras6?, 

vdst. 

sc^ne, 

glebe. 

test. 

d^^t, 

Uv, 

fern. 

pin^. 

bide, 

l!m^». 

ring. 

gold, 

host. 

gr6t, 

bond. 

move. 

prove. 

mute. 

pure. 

dmnb, 

hunt, 

ful/, 

push. 

loud. 

house. 

blaze. 

blAnd. 

glide, 

glini])sc. 

bril8,9. 

branch, 

drouth. 

,  grand. 

grant. 

skulk, 

^  sp^rk. 

spend. 

Bt&rt, 

stare, 

thlsh, 

il^'sh, 

plum. 

slide. 

EKKOKS    IN    ARTICULAIION. 


21 


fram<?, 

print. 

tramp, 

smash. 

strand. 

swarm 

vein, 

cork. 

Aeir, 

said, 

g^i'l? 

woi-d. 

been, 

beau. 

what, 

blood, 

wolf. 

prow. 

Errors  in  Articitlation. 

Errors  in  Articulation  ai'ise  chiefly, 

1.   From  the  omission  of  one  or  more  elements  in  a 


word;  as. 

an'             for      Bxid, 

w'irl 

for 

wAirl. 

frien's         ' 

'       frien6?s. 

w'is  per 

(( 

w/iis  per. 

fiePs 

'       fiel6?8. 

be  in' 

(( 

be  in^. 

wil's           * 

'       wil^Zs. 

sing  in' 

(( 

sing  in^. 

cor  ly         ' 

'       coh/ly. 

cliick'n 

u 

chick  en. 

kin'  ly         * 

*        kin/i  ly. 

kitch'n 

u 

kitch  en. 

blin'  uess    * 

*       blhi^i  ness. 

trav'l 

(( 

trav  e\. 

fac's           ' 

*       facias. 

nov'l 

u 

nov  e\. 

raf's           ' 

*       rafifs. 

learn'd 

(( 

learn  ed. 

8of '  ly        * 

*       sof^  ly. 

wing'd 

u 

wing  ed. 

bol's 

'       boUs. 

his  t'ry 

(( 

his  io  Yj. 

cen's           * 

'       cenz^s. 

cor  p'ral 

u 

cor  p<9  ral. 

ac  cep's      ^ 

'       ac  cep^s. 

lib'  ral 

u 

lib  er  al. 

at  temp's    ' 

*       at  tempfe. 

won  d'ring  " 

wondering. 

pos's           ' 

*       pos^s. 

of  ring 

(( 

oifer  ing. 

sto'm          * 

*       stonn. 

av'  rice 

(( 

av  a  rice. 

sw^'m         ' 

*       swdrm. 

dang'  rous  " 

dangerous. 

wd'm          • 

'       warm. 

min'  ral 

a 

min  er  al. 

s'rewd        ' 

^       s/a-ewd. 

mem'  ry 

(C 

mem  o  ry. 

8'rill 

'       sArill. 

bois  t'rous  " 

bois  ter  ous 

2.   From  uttering  one  or  more  elements  that  should 
not  be  sounded ;  as. 


driv  en 

for 

driv'n. 

brok  en 

for  brok'n 

^veu 

u 

ev'n. 

sev  en 

"     sev'n. 

heav  en 

<( 

heav'n. 

sof^  en 

"     sof'n. 

taken 

it 

tak'n. 

tok  en 

"     tok'n. 

sick  a\ 

ii, 

sick'n. 

shak  en 

"     shak'n 

NATIONAL    FTKIH     KKADER. 


driv  e\ 

for   driv'l. 

shov  e\ 

for   shov'l. 

grov  e\ 

"     grov'l. 

shriv  e\ 

u 

shri^^'l. 

rav  e\ 

"     rav'i. 

sniv  e\ 

u 

sniv'l. 

3.  Frora  substituting  one 

element  for 

an 

other;  as, 

fi^t       for 

sft. 

c^rse 

for 

course  (coi*8) 

sence    " 

since 

re  part 

u 

re  port. 

8h6t       " 

shut. 

trofty 

u 

tro  phj'. 

git         » 

g^t. 

pa  rent 

u 

par  ent. 

for  git  " 

for  gSt. 

bun  net 

u 

bon  net. 

hSrth     " 

hearth  Qihrth). 

chil  drz^n 

(( 

chil  dr^n. 

ben        " 

been  (bin). 

sul lar 

u 

c^l  lar. 

a  gan     " 

a  gain  (a  g^n). 

mel  lev 

u 

mel  kW. 

a  ganst " 

a  gainst  (agSnst). 

pil  l(?r 

u 

pil  \bw. 

care      " 

care. 

wil  l^r 

(( 

wil  16^^?. 

dance    " 

dance. 

yel  l^r 

u 

yel  low. 

past      " 

p^t. 

mo  mwnt 

a 

mo  m^nt. 

^sk        " 

ask. 

treat  nmni 

4( 

treat  iii^nt. 

Ust       " 

last. 

harra  h'ss 

u 

harm  I^jss. 

grfiss     " 

grdss. 

home  1/ss 

u 

home  k'ss. 

dn\ft     " 

drm. 

kind  nzss 

(( 

kind  nt'ss. 

st^ff      " 

staff. 

harsh  n^ss 

u 

harsh  ue&& 

Exercises  in  Articulation. 

For  a  further  exercise  in  Articulation,  let  the  pupils,  separately  and 
m  concert,  read  each  of  the  following  sentences  several  times,  uttering 
the  Elements  in  italics  with /orcc  and  distinctness. 

1.  He  accepts  the  office,  anrf  atteuip/s  by  his  ac<5  to  conceal 
♦lis  fauks. 

2.  The  boZJ,  hl\i?,Ur\ng  boys  hroka  holts  anc?  bar*. 

3.  He  troc?  bol(/ly  the  ha//.s'  of  his  ancestors. 

4.  Those  2iQ,ts  of  govemm^ii/  will  resuk  in  a  general  anc?  great 
increase  of  crime. 

5.  There  are  ra^5,  fi(7«,  anJ  (\v\\gs  in  these  bays. 

6.  He  was  a^/ackerf  with  s]>asm.s'  anc/  d\(id  m\%evMy  by  the 
roac?  siffe. 

7.  He  ]iSng%  to  sMmv  tlj^  t<5M//s  wif^i  a|l  bis  strenyth. 


KXi:i;(Msi:8  in   autku  laiion.  2^ 

8.  Rogaro^less  of  troii^/'s  and  wrony*-,  h«  curbed  the  awyer  of 
thai  disturftV  rabble. 

9.  He  reads  the  ac<^  of  the  govermnent,  and  expect  to  learn 
the  fac^6'  in  the  case. 

10.  If  he  reflect,  he  will  ta^e  pr6mpt  means  to  secure  their 
clu66'  anc?  save  his  ribs. 

11.  Dea^A  ravages?  for  mon^As  ^Aroughoui  the  whole  \enpfh 
and  hre^idth  of  the  \a.nd, 

12.  For  the  hundred^A  time,  he  spoAre  of  lengths^  breadths, 
VfidthSy  smd  depths. 

13.  Wh\s2^ers  of  revenge  passec?  silendy  arounc?  among  the 
troops. 

14.  He  laughsj  ano?  qna^*-  his  ale,  knowiwy  that  the  rafts  and 
ski^A'  are  on  the  reefs  near  the  cli^s. 

15.  What  fliou  woulc?A'<  highly  fha^  fhou  woulc?s<  holily. 

16    ^our  ialse  frienrf**  aim,  by  stealthy  to  secure  the  viealth  for 
which  you  de/y't/,  and  lost  your  health. 

17.  As  the  water  gnsh'd  tor^A,  he  w\sh''d  he  had  pu«AV  the 
d6g  from  the  pa^/i,  anc?  hnsh'd  the  chile?. 

18.  Her  fauks  were  aggravated,  and  helc?  up  to  universal  scorn 
and  reproach. 

19.  The  ra^^rcd  madTTzan,  in  his  raraft/e,  dirf  wiadly  ransack 
every  pantry  in  the  pari.sA. 

20.  Direcdy  after  these  accident  numerous  attempt*  were 
made  to  emtgra^e. 

21    The  peevi6'A,/ee6/e/reeman/eeWy/ough<  for/reedom. 

22.  It  will  paiw  nobody,  if  the  sad  c?angler  regain  neither 
rope. 

23.  Fame, /ortune,  and/riencf^/avor  the /air. 

24.  TAeodore  27iick^/i6ny  ^/irus<  three  thousand  <A.istles  ^Arough 
the  thick  of  his  <Aumb. 

25.  Beneafli  the  booth,  I  found  baflis,  laflis,  cloflis,  moflis, 
paflis,  sheaths,  and  wreaths. 

26.  Prifliee,  bllfhe  you^A,  do  not  moufli  your  words  when  you 
wreafhe  your  face  wifh  smiles. 

27.  The  best  defenders  of  liberty  do  not  common/y  vociferate 
most  loudly  in  Us  praise. 

28.  That  fello«»  sho/  a  sparrow  en  a  willow,  m  the  n&rrot* 
meadow,  near  the  ySll6</'  house. 


24  NATlOxNAI.    KIJ  rH     RKADKlt. 

29.  The  rival  robbers  roda  mmid  and  round  the  rough  and 
»*ugo;p.l  riM'.ka  th;it  rear  their  koary  heads  Ai^h  in  the  air. 

30.  xAini(i.s7  the  iiiis^s  and  coldast  frosts-,  with  bare.sV  wrists  and 
stouut.st  bojis/.v,  he  ///nis/.s-  his  fis/.-^  agaiTi6'<  (agenst)  th<'  posZ-v,  and 
still  insist*  he  sees  tiie  ghos/'.v. 

31.  The  ^Aoughtless,  helpless,  homeless  girl  did  not  rescni  bis 
rudeness  and  harshness. 

32.  That  blessed  and  learned  man  says  that  that  winged  thi?i^ 
is  striped  or  streaked. 

33.  For  thee  are  the  cAaple^s  of  cAainless  c/iarity  and  the 
cAalice  of  cAiyiike  cAeerfulness.  ChangQ  can  not  ckam/e  thee : 
from  chWdhood  to  the  cAa?-nel-house,  from  our  firsi  chi]d\8h 
chu-p\n(/s  to  the  e/iills  of  the  c/uircA-yard,  thou  art  our  cAeery, 
c/tangeless  cAieftaiuess. 

34.  WTAat  Wiim  led  TFAite  TF7iitney  to  Wtittle,  w'Aistle,  wk\s- 
per,  and  ivhhn^ar  near  the  Wiarf,  where  a  flounderi^i^  whale 
migh/  wheel  and  Wiirl  ? 

35.  With  Aorrio?  howls,  he  heaved  the  Aeavews  above. 

36.  Ue  has  prints  of  an  ice-house,  an  ocean,  and  washes  and 
deaerts. 

Si.  At  that  time,  the  lame  wan,  who  began  nobly,  having 
made  a  had  jyoint,  wep^  bitterly. 

38.  When  loud  6'urges  la^s'A  the  sounding  sAore,  the  hoarse, 
rough  verse  6*AouW  like  the  torrent  roar. 

39.  The  corporations  of  the  Middle  Ages  were  intenc?eci  to 
resist  the  encroachments  of  kings  and  nobles. 

40.  He  had  respec^a6/e  talen^  but  was  hrmidable  to  the 
people  from  his  wan<  of  princijoZe,  and  his  readiness  to  ^ruc^le  to 
men  in  power. 

41.  Thou  laic?'s/  down  ano?  slep/'s^ 

42.  As  thou  founc?'s<,  so  thou  keep'st  me. 

43.  He  said  cea.seiA,  approaeAe^A,  rejoice^A;  fa//Vi,  InirPstf 
curv^st ;  halC st,  hin^'s^,  aitempC st ;  harh'dsty  swerv'dst,  nmzzCdst; 
havd^n^dst,  bIacA:'nV.s7,  mangVdst. 

44.  She  au/Aori^adve/y  Zed  us,  anc?  c?isintere67ec?ly  Zabored  for 
VIS,  and  we  unhesiVa^iw^/ly  admitted  her  reasonableness. 

45.  A  storm  arise(A  on  the  sea.  A  model  vessel  is  struQ,gling 
amidst  the  war  of  elements,  quivering  and  shiweiing,  shrinking 
\i\d  batdiny  like  a  thinAriny  beiny.     The  merciless,  vaek\ng  whivV 


FORMATION    OF    SYLI.ABLIlS.  25 

wint/j;,  like  /righ/fiil  fierir/^',  how/  anc?  moan,  and  sand  shuTpj 
shnU  ahrwls  through  tlie  creakiw^  corda/7e,  sxiupp'rig  the  slieets 
and  nias^5.  The  6-hirdy  sailors  stand  to  their  tasArs,  anc?  weather 
the  sever^&t  storm  of  the  season. 


Section  II. — Syllabication. 

1.  A  Svr.LARLE  is  a  word,  or  part  of  a  word,  uttered 
by  a  single  impulse  of  the  voice. 

2.  A  Monosyllable  is  a  word  of  one  syllable ;  as, 
home. 

3.  A  Dissyllable  is  a  word  of  two  syllables;  as, 
home-less. 

4.  A  Trisyllable  is  a  word  of  three  syllables;  as, 
con-fine-ment, 

5.  A  PoLY'SYLLABLE  is  a  word  of  four  or  more  sylla- 
bles ;  as,  in-no-cen-cy^  uTv-in-telrli-gi-hil-i-ty. 

6.  The  Ultimate  is  the  last  syllable  of  a  word ;  2^  fitly 
in  'peaceful. 

7.  The  Penult,  or  penultimate,  is  the  last  syllable  but 
one  of  a  word ;  as  male,  in  peace-m^Z;-er. 

8.  The  Antepenult,  or  antepenultimate,  is  the  last 
syllable  but  two  of  a  word ;  as  peace,  in  peace-mak-er. 

9.  The  Preantepenult,  or  preantepenultimate,  is  the 
last  syllable  but  three  of  a  word;  as  mat,  in  ma^ri-mo-ny. 

Formation  of  Syllables. 

1.  A  single  impulse  of  the  voice  can  produce  but  one  radical 
or  opening  and  vanishing  or  gradually  diminishing  movement. 
Since  a  syllable  is  produced  by  a  single  impulse  of  the  voice,  it 
follows  that  only  such  an  oral  element,  or  order  of  oral  elements, 
as  gives  but  one  radical  and  vanish  movement,  can  enter  into 
its  formation.  As  the  tonics  can  not  be  uttered  separately  with- 
out producing  this  movement,  but  one  of  them  can  enter  into  a 
single  syllable ;  and,  as  this  movement  is  all  that  is  essential, 
each  of  the  tonics  may,  by  itself,  form  a  syllable.  Consistently 
with  this,  we  find,  whenever  two  tonics  adjoin,  they  always  bo- 


26  NATIONAL    FIFTH    KKADKR. 

long  to  separate  syllables  in  pronunciation,  as  in  n-e-n&\  i-o  ta, 
o-a-sis, 

2,  Though  elements  can  not  be  combined  with  a  view  to 
Iciiglhon  a  syllable,  by  the  addition  of  one  tonic  to  atiother,  as 
this  would  produce  a  new  and  separate  impulse,  yet  a  syllallo 
may  be  lengthened  by  prefixing  and  affixing  any  number  of  sub- 
fonics  and  atonies  to  a  tonic,  that  do  not  destroy  its  singleness 
of  impulse  ;  as,  a,  an,  and,  land,  gland,  glands. 

3.  A  tonic  is  usually  regarded  as  indispensable  in  the  foima- 
Mon  of  a  syllable.  A  few  syllables,  however,  are  formed  exclu- 
oi\  el}'  by  subtonics.  In  the  words  bidde-«,  rive-?/,  rhyth-w,  schis-m, 
^iC'kle,  \-dle,  Wi-tle,  and  words  of  like  construction,  the  last  sylla- 
ble is  ,either  pure  subtonic,  or  a  combination  of  subtonic  and 
atonic.  These  final  syllables  go  through  the  radical  and  vanish 
movement,  though  they  are  f^ir  inferior  in  quality,  euphony,  and 
force,  to  the  full  display  of  these  properties  on  the  tonics. 

In  combining  the  oral  elements  into  syllables,  students  should 
carefully  observe  the  following 

Rules  for  the  Formation  of  Syllables. 

1.  The  elements  of  consonants  that  commence  words 
should  be  uttered  distinctly,  but  should  not  be  much 
prolonged.^ 

2.  Elements  that  are  represented  by  final  consonants 
should  be  dwelt  upon,  and  uttered  with  great  distinct- 
ness; as. 

He  accep^5  the  ofiice,  anc/  attempts  by  his  acts  to  conceal  his 
faul/s. 

3.  When  one  word  of  a  sentence  ends  and  the  next 
begins  with  the  same  consonant,  or  another  that  is 
hard  to  produce  after  it,  a  difficulty  in  utterance  arises 
that  should  be  obviated  by  dwelling  on  the  final  conso- 

'  On  this  point,  Dr.  Kush  mentions  the  error  of  a  distinguished  actor, 
who,  in  order  to  give  force  to  liis  aiticulation,  dwelt  on  the  initial  let- 
ters, as  marked  in  the  following  lines  : 

♦*  Canst  thou  not  m-inister  to  a  rn  iud  diseased, 
P^uck  from  the  w-emory  a  r-ooted  sorzow?" 
Such  moiiftiing  defeats  its  object. 


KULES    FOR   THE    FOKM.ATION    OF   SYLLAIiLES.  27 

nant,  arid  then  taking  up  the  one  at  the  beginning  of  the 
next  word,  in  a  second  impulse  of  the  voice,  without 
pausing  between  them ;  as. 

It  will  pain  nobody,  if  the  sac?  c?angler  ?•egai?^  neither  rope. 
After  erecting  a  fielc?  ^ent,  on  that  bright  c?ay,  he  wep^  bitterly. 

4.  In  uttering  the  elements  that  are  represented  by 
the  final  consonants  o,  p,  d,  t,  g,  and  Jc,  the  organs  of 
speech  should  not  remain  closed  at  the  several  pauses 
of  discourse,  but  should  be  smartly  separated  by  a  kind 
of  echo  /  as, 

I  took  down  my  hat-^,  and  put  it  upon  my  head-c?. 

5.  Unaccented  syllables  should  be  pronounced  as  dis- 
tinctly as  those  which  are  accented :  they  should  merely 
have  less  force  of  voice  and  less  prolongation ;  as. 

The  thought/e55,  helpless^  homeless  girl  did  not  resent  his 
rudeness  and  harshnes-s-.  Every  one  says,  that  avarice  did  not 
deter  him  from  paying  a  libe?-al  price  for  that  rare  mineral. 

Very  many  of  the  prevailing  faults  of  articulation  result  from 
a  neglect  of  these  rules,  especially  the  second,  the  third,  and  the 
last.  He  who  gives  a  full  and  definite  sound  to  final  consonants 
and  to  unaccented  vowels,  if  he  does  it  without  stiffness  or  for- 
mality, can  hardly  fail  to  articulate  well. 

Let  students  give  the  number  and  names  of  the  syllables,  in  wordg 
of  more  than  one  syllable,  and  tell  what  rule  for  the  formation  of  sylla- 
bles each  letter  that  appears  in  italics  is  designed  to  illustrate,  in  the 
following 

Exercise. 

1.  Thirty  years  ago,  Marseilles  lay  6urnin^  in  the  sun,  one 
day.  A  blazmg  sun,  upon  a  fierce  August  c?ay,  was  no  greater 
rarity  in  Southern  France  then,  than  at  any  other  time,  before 
or  since.  Every  ihin^  in  Marseilles,  and  abou^  Marseilles,  had 
sfared  at  the  fervid  sky,  and  been  scared  at  in  return,  until  a 
stavinf/  habit  had  become  universal  there.  / 

2.  /Strangers  were  scared  out  of  countenance  by  staring  white 
houses,  staving  whi^e  walls,  staring  whi^e  streets,  stari?ig  trac^<?  of 
avid  roac?,  stariwy  hills  from  which  z^erdure  was  burnt  away. 
The  only  things  to  be  seen  not  firedly  staring  and  glariw^  were 
the  vines  drooping  under  their  load  of  grapes.     These  did  occa- 


28  NATIONAL    FIFTH   READER. 

sionallj  mnk  a  little,  as  the  hot  air  barely  moved  their  faint 
leaves. 

3.  There  was  no  wincZ  to  make  a  ripple  on  the  foul  water 
within  the  harbor,  or  on  the  beautiful  sea  without.  The  line  of 
demarkation  between  the  two  colors,  blac^  and  blue,  showed  the 
point  which  the  pure  sea  would  not  pass ;  but  it  lay  as  quiet  as 
the  abommable  pool,  with  which  it  never  mixec?.  Boa^s-  without 
Rwmnf/s  were  too  hot  to  touch ;  ships  blistered  at  their  moor- 
\n(/s ;  the  stones  of  the  quays  had  not  coolec?,  night  or  day,  for 
months. 

4.  The  universal  s^are  made  the  eyes  ache.  Toward  the  dis- 
tant line  of  Italian  coas^,  indecc?,  it  was  a  little  relieved  by  light 
clouds  of  mis^,  slowly  risiw^  from  the  evaporation  of  the  sea; 
but  it  softened  nowhere  else.  Far  away  the  staring  roac?s,  deep 
in  dus^,  stared  from  the  hillsic^e,  stared  from  the  hollow,  stared 
from  the  interminable  plain. 

5.  Far  away  the  dusty  vines  overhanging  wayside  cottages, 
and  the  monotonous  wayside  avenues  of  parchec^  trees  without 
s/tade,  drooped  boneafti  the  stare  of  earth  and  sky.  So  did  the 
horses  with  drowsy  bells,  in  long  files  of  car<5,  creeping  slowly 
toward  the  interior ;  so  did  their  recumbeni  c?rivers,  when  they 
were  awa^e,  which  rarely  happenec? ;  so  did  the  exhausted  la- 
borers in  the  ^e\ds. 

6.  Every  thing  that  Zived  or  ^rew  was  oppressed  by  the  ghre ; 
except  the  lizarc?,  passing  swiftly  over  rough  stone  walls,  and  the 
cicada,  chirping  his  dry  hot  chirp,  like  a  rat^/e.  The  very  dust 
was  scorchec?  6rown,  and  somethi/ip'  quivered  in  the  atmosphere 
as  if  the  air  itself  were  panting.  Blinc?6',  shutters,  curtains',  awn- 
inffs,  were  all  closed  and  c?rawn  to  keep  out  the  stare.  Grant  it 
but  a  chin^  or  keyhole,  and  it  shot  in  like  a  white-hot  &rrow.  v 

7.  The  churches  were  freest  from  it.  To  come  out  of  the 
twilight  of  7)i liars  and  arches — dreamz'ly  rfotted  with  winki?zy 
hmpa,  dreamily  peopled  with  ugly  oldf  sAadows  piously  doz\n(/, 
spitting,  an^l  hegginf/ — was  to  pluuge  into  a  fiery  river,  and  stv'im 
for  life  to  the  -ne&rest  «/rip  of  sharfe.  So,  with  people  loungi??.^ 
and  ly'mff  wherever  shade  was,  with  but  little  hum  of  tongues  or 
barki)!^  of  do/7s,  with  occasional  jangli??//  of  discordant  church 
bells,  and  rattlir^^  of  vicious  drums,  Marseilles,  a  fac/  to  be  strong- 
ly smelt  anc?  tn&ted,  lay  broiling  in  the  sun  one  day. 


WOKDS    DISTl^'cJDIrfllE^>    BY    ACCENT.  29 


Section  III. — Accent. 

1.  Accent  is  the  peculiar  force  given  to  one  or  more 
syllables  of  a  word. 

2.  A  mark  like  this  '  is  often  used  to  show  which  syllable  is 
accented  ;  as,  read'ing,  eat'ing,  re  ward',  com  pel',  mis'  chievous, 
"i  o  lin',  fire'-eat'  er,  in'  cense-breath'  ing. 

3.  In  many  trisyllables  and  polysyllables,  of  two  syllables  ac- 
cented, one  is  uttered  with  greater  force  than  the  other.  The 
more  forcible  accent  is  called  'primary^  and  the  less  forcible, 
secondary. 

4  A  mark  like  this  ^  is  sometimes  used  to  indicate  secondary 
accent ;  as,  ed'  u  ca'  tion,  ed'  u  cate\  mul'  ti  pli  ca'  tion. 

In  words  of  more  than  one  syllable,  let  the  pupils  tell  on  what  sylla- 
bles primary  and  secondary  accents  fall,  in  the  following 

Examples. 

1.  When  the  weary  seaman,  on  the  dreary  deep,  sees  a  beacon 
gleaming  on  the  seashore,  he  is  eager  for  the  seaside. 

2.  If  the  marine  force  besiege  the  fort,  we  will  march  to  its 
rehef,  when  your  friends  can  make  a  sortie  and  retrieve  their  loss. 

3.  The  brigadier,  cavalier,  chevalier,  grenadier,  and  volunteer 
were  armed  cap-a-pie. 

4.  On  that  momentous  occasion,  the  majestic  polemic  made  a 
pathetic  speech  for  the  prevention  of  oppression. 

5.  If  you  make  an  amicable  arrangement  wifh  your  adversary, 
he  will  be  an  admirable  ac'cessary  to  the  felony. 

6.  The  aristocratic  ecclesiastic  addressed  the  people  of  that 
municipality  in  enthusiastic  strains. 

7.  Impenetrability  and  indestructibility  are  two  essential  prop- 
erties of  matter. 

8.  The  incommunicability  and  incomprehensibihty  of  the 
ways  of  Providence  are  no  obstacles  to  the  eye  of  faith. 

Words  Distinguished  by  Accent. 

Many  words,  or  parts  of  speech,  having  the  same  form,  are 
distinguished  by  accent  alone.  Nouns  and  adjectives  are  often 
thus  distinguished  from  verbs. 


30  NATIONAL    FIFIH    RKADKR. 


Examples. 


1.  Why  does  your  ah' sent  friend  absent'  himself? 

2.  Did  he  abstract'  an  ah' strait  of  your  speech  from  the  desk  \ 

3.  Note  the  mark  of  ac'cent,  and  accent'  the  right  syllable. 

4.  Buy  some  cem'ent  and  cement'  the  glass. 

5.  Desert'  us  not  in  the  des'ert. 

6.  If  that  proj'ect  fail,  he  will  project'  another. 

v.  My  in'crease  is  taken  to  increase'  your  wealth. 

8.  Perfume'  the  room  with  rich  perfume. 

9.  If  they  reprimand'  that  officer,  he  will  not  regard  their 
yiti'p'rimand. 

10.  If  they  rebel' ^  and  overthrow'  the  government,  even  the 
reh'els  can  not  justify  the  o'verthrow. 

A  few  dissyllables,  which  are  at  once  nouns  and  adjectives,  are 
distinguished  by  accenting  the  nouns  on  the  first  syllable  and 
the  adjectives  on  the  la^t. 

Examples. 

1.  In  Au'gust^  the  august'  writer  entered  into  a  com' pact  to 
prcpaie  a  compact'  discourse. 

2.  In'stinct^  not  reason,  rendered  the  herd  instinct'  with  spirit. 

3.  Within  a  min'ute  from  this  time,  I  will  find  a  mli.ute'  piecj 
of  gold. 

Accent  Changed  by  Contrast. 

The  ordinary  accent  of  words  is  sometimes  changed  by  a  con- 
trast in  sense,  or  to  express  opposition  of  thought. 

Examples. 

1.  Re  must  m'crease,  but  I  must  c?e'crease. 

2.  He  did  not  say  a  new  ao?'dition,  but  a  new  e'dition. 

3.  Consider  well  what  you  have  done,  and  what  you  have  left 
wn'done. 

4.  I  said  that  she  will  sws'pect  the  truth  of  the  story,  not  that 
she  will  6:c'pect  it. 

5.  He  that  c?e'scended  is  also  the  same  that  as'cendcd. 

(5.  This  corruptible  must  put  on  m'corruption ;  and  this  mor- 
tal rau&t  put  on  im'mortality. 


EMPB  ASIS.  SI 

CHAPTER  II. 

EXPRESSION. 

Expression  of  Speech  is  tlie  utterance  of  tliought, 
feeling,  or  passion,  with  due  signilicance  or  force.  Its 
general  divisions  are  Emphasis,  Slur,  Inflection,  Mod- 
DLATioN,  Monotone,  Personation,  and  Pauses. 

Orthoepy  is  the  mechanical  part  of  Elocution,  consisting  in 
the  discipline  and  use  of  the  organs  of  voice  for  the  production 
of  the  alphabetic  elements  and  their  combination  into  separate 
words.  It  is  the  basis — the  subsoil,  which,  by  the  mere  force  of 
will  and  patient  practice,  may  be  broken  and  turned  up  to  the 
sun,  and  from  which  spring  the  flowers  of  expression. 

Expression  is  the  soul  of  elocution.  By  its  ever-varying  and 
delicate  combinations,  and  its  magic  and  irresistible  power,  it 
wills — and  the  listless  ear  stoops  with  expectation ;  the  vacant 
eye  burns  with  unwonted  fire ;  the  dormant  passions  are  aroused, 
and  all  the  tender  and  powerful  sympathies  of  the  soul  are  called 
into  vigorous  exercise. 

Section  I. — E?.iphasis. 

1.  Emphasis  is  the  peculiar  force  given  to  one  or  more 
words  of  a  sentence. 

2.  To  give  a  word  emphasis,  means  to  pronounce  it  in  a  loud 
or  forcible  manner.  No  peculiar  tone,  however,  is  necessary,  as 
a  word  or  phrase  may  be  rendered  emphatic  or  peculiarly  sig- 
nificant by  prolonging  the  vowel  sounds,  by  a  pause,  or  even  b} 
a  whisper. 

3.  Emphatic  words  are  often  printed  in  italics ;  those  more 
emphatic,  in  small  capitals  ;  and  those  that  receive  the  greatest 
force,  in  large  CAPITALS. 

4.  By  the  proper  use  of  emphasis,  we  are  enabled  ta  impart 
animation  and  interest  to  conversation  and  reading.     Its  import 
ance  can  not  be  over-estimated,  as  the  meaning  of  a  sentence 
often  depends  upon  the   proper  placing  of  the  emphasis.     If 
readers  have  a  desire  to  produce  an  impression  on  hearers,  and 


32  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

read  what  they  understand  and  feeL,  they  will  generally  place 
emphasis  on  the  right  words.  Pupils,  however,  shou.d  be  re- 
quired to  observe  carefully  the  following 

Rules  for  the  Use  of  Emphasis. 

1.  Words  and  phrases  ^peculiarly  significant,  or  im- 
portant in  meaning,  are  emphatic ;  as, 

Wheme  and  what  art  thou,  execrable  shape!  But  see!  the 
enemy  retire.  My  first  reason  for  the  adoption  of  this  measure 
is,  the  people  demand  it ;  my  second  reason  is,  the  people  de- 
mand IT. 

2.  Words  and  phrases  that  contrast,  or  point  out  a 
difference,  are  emphatic;  as, 

I  did  not  say  a  better  soldier,  but  an  elder.  Take  courage! 
let  your  motto  be,  '•''Ever  onward^''  not,  '•''Never  constant^ 

3.  The  repetition  of  an  emphatic  word  or  phrase  usu- 
ally requires  an  increased  force  of  utterance ;  as. 

You  injured  my  child — you,  sir! 

Charge  home — brave  men,  at  Freedom's  call ; 
Charge  home — your  bleeding  comrades  fall ; 
CHARGE  HOME— avenge  them  one  and  all ; 
God  will  protect  the  right ! 

4.  A  succession  of  important  words  or  phrases  usually 
requires  a  gradual  increase  of  emphatic  force,  though 
emphasis  sometimes  falls  on  the  last  word  of  a  series 
only;  as. 

His  disappointment^  his  anguish,  his  DEATH,  were  caused  by 
your  cai'clessness.  These  misfortunes  are  the  same  to  the  poor, 
the  Ignorant,  and  the  weak^  as  to  the  rich,  the  wise,  and  the 
j)oiverful. 

Eecjuire  pupils  to  tell  which  of  the  preceding  rules  is  illustrated  by 
each  of  the  following 

Exe&cises. 

1.  S])eak  little  and  well,  if  you  wish  to  be  considered  rs  pos- 
Bcssing  iiiSrit. 

2.  Boisterous  in  speech,  in  action  prompt  and  hold. 


EMPHASIS.  33 

3.  He  buys,  he  sells^ — he  steals,  ho  KILLS  for  gold. 

4.  But  here  I  stand  for  right^  for  Roman  right. 

5.  I  shall  know  but  one  country.  I  was  horn  an  American; 
I  live  an  American ;  I  shall  die  an  American. 

6.  He  that  trusts  yow,  where  he  should  find  you  lions  finds 
you  hares;  where /oares,  geese. 

7.  A  good  man  loves  himself  too  well  to  lose  an  estate  by 
Taming,  and  his  neighbor  too  well  to  win  one. 

8.  The  GOOD  man  is  honored^  but  the  evil  man  is  despised. 

9.  The  youjir;  are  slaves  to  novelty :  the  old^  to  custom:  the 
middle  ar/dd,  to  both :  the  dead,  to  neither. 

10.  The  wicked  flee  when  no  inan  pursueth;  but  the  Hghteous 
are  bold  as  a  lion. 

IL  They  come!  to  arms!  to  arms!  TO  ARMS! 

12.  None  but  the  hrave,  none  but  the  brave,  none  but  the 
BRAVE  deserve  the  fair. 

13.  A  day,  an  hour,  of  virtuous  liberty,  is  worth  a  whole 
ETERNITY  in  bondage. 

14.  It  is  my  living  sentiment,  and,  by  the  blessing  of  God,  it 
shall  be  my  dying  sentiment — Independence  now,  and  independ- 
ence forever. 

15.  Strike — till  the  last  arm'd  foe  expires  ; 
Strike — for  your  altars  and  your  fires ; 
STRIKE — for  the  green  graves  of  your  sires ; 

God — and  your  native  land  ! 

16.  See  how  beauty  is  excelled  by  manly  grace,  and  wisdom, 
which  alone  is  truly  fair. 

17.  The  thunders  of  heaven  are  sometimes  heard  to  roll'mWiQ 
voice  of  a  united  people. 

1 8.  Let  us  fight  for  our  country,  our  whole  country,  and 
NOTHING  BUT  OUR  COUNTRY. 

19.  What  stronger  breastplate  than  a  heart  untainted  f 
THRICE  is  he  armed  that  hath  his  quarrel  just  ;  and  he  but 
naked,  though  locked  up  in  STEEL,  whose  conscience  with  in- 
justice is  corrupted. 

20.  Son  of  night,  retire  ;  call  thy  winds,  and  fly.  Why  dost 
thou  come  to  my  presence  with  thy  shadowy  arms?  Do  I  feap 
thy  gloomy  form,  dismal  spirit  of  Loda?  Weak  is  thy  shield  of 
clouds ;  feeble  is  that  meteor,  thy  sword. 

8 


34  NAllONAL    FIFIH    READER. 

21.  ^^^lat  should  I  say  to  you  ?     Should  I  not  say, 
Hath  a  d5g  money  ?  is  it  possiblf^ 

A  CUR  can  lend  three  thousand  duc'ats? 

22.  Speak  the  speech,  I  pray  you,  as  I  j)ronounce  it  to  you — 
tnppingly  on  the  tongue;  but  if  you  Twoafh  it,  as  many  of  our 
players  do,  I  had  as  lief  the  iown-crier  spake  my  lines.  Nor  do 
not  saw  the  air  too  much  with  your  hand  thus^  but  use  all  gently  ; 
for  in  the  very  torrent,  tempest^  and  (as  I  may  say)  whirlwind  Oi 
your  passion,  you  must  acquire  and  beget  a  temiKrance  that  will 
give  it  smoothness. 

23.  If  there  be  any  in  this  assembly,  any  dear  friend  of 
Ca^sar^s,  to  him  I  say,  that  Brutus'  love  to  Caesar  was  no  less 
than  his.  li,  then,  that  friend  demand  why  Brutus  rose  against 
Caesar,  this  is  my  answer :  not  that  I  loved  Caesar  less,  but  that 
I  loved  Rome  more.  Had  you  rather  Caesar  were  living,  and 
die  all  slaves,  thap  that  Caesar  were  dead,  to  live  all  freemen  ? 

24.  As  Caesar  loved  me,  I  weej)  for  him;  as  he  was  fortunate^ 
I  rejoice  at  it ;  as  he  was  valiant,  I  honor  him ;  but  as  he  was 
A.MB1TI0US,  I  slew  him.  There  is  tears  for  his  love,  joy  for  his 
fortune,  honor  for  his  valor,  and  death  for  his  ambition. 

25.  If  you  have  tears,  prepare  to  shed  them  now.  You  all 
do  know  this  mantle :  I  remember  the  first  time  ever  Caesar  put 
it  on :  ('twas  on  a  summei''s  evening  in  his  tent :  that  day  he 
overcame  the  Nervii :) — LOOK !  In  this  place  ran  Cassius'  dag- 
ger through  :  see  what  a  rent  the  envious  Casca  made.  Through 
THIS,  the  well-beloved  Brutus  stabbed ;  and,  as  he  plucked  his 
cursed  steel  away,  mark  how  the  blood  of  Caesar  followed  \t  I 
This  was  the  most  unkindest  cut  of  all !  for,  when  the  noble 
Ca)sar  saw  HIM  stab,  INGRATITUDE,  more  strong  than 
traitors'  arms,  quite  vanquished  him !  Then  burst  his  mighty 
heart ;  and,  in  his  mantle  muffling  up  his  face,  even  at  the  base 
of  Pompey's  statue,  which  all  the  while  ran  blood,  great  C^sar 
fell.  0  WHAT  a  fall  was  there,  my  countrymen !  Then  /, 
and  YOU,  and  all  of  us,  fell  down ;  whilst  bloody  TREASON 
nourished  over  us. 

20.  0,  now  yow  weep ;  and  I  perceive  you  feel  the  dint  of 
PITY  :  these  are  gracious  drops.  Kind  souls!  What,  weep  you 
when  you  but  behold  our  Caesar's  vesture  wounded  ?  Look  ye 
here!     ilore  is  himSELF,  marked,  as  you  see,  by  traitors 


SLUE.  3d 


Seciion  IL — Slue. 

1.  Sltjr  is  that  smooth,  gliding,  subdued  movement 
Df  the  voice,  by  which  those  parts  of  a  sentence  of  less 
comparative  importance  are  rendered  less  impressive  to 
tlie  ear,  and  emphatic  words  and  phrases  set  in  stronger 
relief. 

2.  When  a  word  or  part  of  a  sentence  is  emphasized^  it  is 
usually  pronounced  wifli  a  louder  and  more  forcible  eflfort  of  the 
voice,  and  is  frequently  prolonged.  But  when  a  sentence  or 
part  of  a  sentence  is  slurred^  it  must  generally  bo  read  in  a 
lower  and  less  forcible  tone  of  voice,  more  rapidly,  and  with  all 
the  words  pronounced  nearly  alike. 

3.  In  order  to  communicate  clearly  and  forcibly  the  whole 
signification  of  a  passage,  it  must  be  subjected  to  a  rigid  analysis. 
It  will  then  be  found,  that  one  paramount  idea  always  pervades 
the  sentence,  although  it  may  be  associated  with  incidental 
statements,  and  qualified  in  every  possible  manner.  Hence, 
on  the  proper  management  of  slur,  much  of  the  beauty  and 
propriety  of  enunciation  depends,  as  thus  the  reader  is  enabled 
to  bring  forward  the  primary  idea,  or  more  important  parts,  into 
a  strong  light,  and  throw  other  portions  into  shade ;  thereby  en- 
tirely changing  the  character  of  the  sentence,  and  making  it  ap- 
pear lucid,  strong,,  and  expressive. 

4.  Slur  must  be  employed  in  cases  of  parenthesis^  contrast^ 
repetition^  or  explanation^  where  the  phrase  or  sentence  is  of 
small  comparative  importance ;  and  often  when  qualification  of 
time,  place,  or  maymer  is  made. 

Exercises. 

The  parts  which  are  to  be  slurred  in  these  exercises  are  printed  in 
Halic  letters,  the  prominent  ideas  appear  in  Roman,  and  the  more  em- 
phatic words  in  capitals. 

1 .  The  stomach  (crammed  from  every  dish,  a  tomb  of  boiled 
and  roast,  and  flesh  and  fish,  where  bile,  and  wind,  and  phlegm, 
and  acid  jar,  and  all  the  man  is  one  intestine  toar)  remembers 
oft  the  school-boy's  simple  fare,  the  temperate  sleeps,  and  spirits 
'ight  a.«  air. 


86  NATIONAL   Firrii    READER. 

2.  Ingenious  boys,  ^dKo  are  idle^  think,  ivith  the  hare  in  the 
fahle^  that,  running  with  snails  {so  they  count  the  rest  of  theh 
school-fellows)^  they  sliall  come  soon  enough  to  the  post ;  though 
sleeping  a  good  while  before  their  starting, 

3.  The  rivulet  sends  forth  glad  sounds,  and  tripping  o'er  iti 
bed  of  pebbly  sands,  or  leaping  down  the  rocks,  seems  with  con- 
iinuoiis  laughter  to  rejoice  in  its  own  being. 

4.  The  devout  heart,  penetrated  with  large  and  affecting  views 
of  the  immensity  of  the  works  of  God,  the  harmony  of  his  lawS) 
and  the  extent  of  his  beneficence,  bursts  into  loud  and  vocal  ex- 
pressions of  praise  and  adoration;  Sindfrom  a  full  and  overflow- 
ing sensibility,  seeks  to  expand  itself  to  the  utmost  limits  of 
creation. 

5.  If  there's  a  Power  above  us  (and  that  there  is,  all  nature 
cries  aloud  through  all  her  ivorks),  He  must  delight  in  virtue. 

6.  Can  he,  who,  not  satisfied  with  the  wide  range  of  animated 
existence,  calls  for  the  sympathy  of  the  inanimate  creation,  re- 
fuse TO  WORSHIP  with  his  fellow-men  ? 

7.  But  let  me  ask.  By  what  right  do  you  involve  yourself  in 
this  multiplicity  of  cares  ?  Why  do  you  weave  around  you  this 
web  of  occupiation,  and  then  complain  that  you  can  not  break  it  ? 

8.  The  massy  rocks  themselves,  the  old  and  ponderous  trunks 
of  prostrate  trees,  that  lead  from  knoll  to  knoll,  a  causey  rude,  or 
bridge  the  sunken  brook,  and  their  dark  roots  with  all  their  earth 
U2)on  them,  twisting  high,  breathe  fixed  traijquillity. 

9.  When  therefore  the  Lord  knew  how  the  Pharisees  had 
heard  that  Jesus  made  and  baptized  more  disciples  than  John, 
though  Jesus  himself  baptized  not,  but  his  disciples,  he  left  Judcji, 
and  departed  again  into  Galilee. 

10.  The  calm  shade  shall  bring  a  kindred  calm,  and  the  sweol 
breeze,  that  makes  the  green  leaves  dance,  shall  waft  a  balm  to  thy 
sick  heart. 

11.  A  few  hours  more,  and  she  will  move  in  stately  grandeur 
on,  cleaving  her  path  majestic  through  the  flood,  as  if  she  were  a 

GODDESS  of  the  DEEP. 

12.  Falsely  luxurious,  will  not  man  awake,  and  springing  from 
the  bed  of  sloth,  enjoy  the  cool,  the  fragrant,  and  the  silent  hour* 
to  meditation  due,  and  sacred  song? 

13.  Stranger,  if  thou  liast  knrnt  a  truth  which  needs  expv 


8LUB.  37 

rier  3e  more  than  reason,  that  the  world  is  full  of  cfuili  and  mis- 
ery^  and  hast  known  enough  of  al'  its  sorrows,  crimes,  Jind  cares, 
to  tire  tliee  of  it, — enter  this  wild  wood,  and  view  the  haunts 
of  nature. 

14.  The  smoothness  of  flattery  can  not  now  avail — can  not 
SAVE  us  in  this  riujged  and  awful  crisis. 

15.  IN  TIIEE,  FIRST  LIGHT,  the  bounding  ocean  smiles,  when 
Uie  quick  winds  uprear  it  in  a  swell,  that  rolls  in  (/litteriiuj  (/rem 
around  the  isles^  luhere  ever-springing  fruits  and  blossoms  dwell. 

16.  No!  DEAR  as  FREEDOM  is,  and  in  my  hearCs  just  estuiu> 
Hon  jyrized  above  all  price^  I  would  mucli  rather  be  myself  the 
SLAVE,  and  wear  the  bonds,  than  fasten  them  on  him. 

17.  May  the  like  serenity,  in  such  dreadful  circumstances, 
and  a  death  equally  glorious,  be  the  lot  of  all  whom  tyran- 
ny, of  whatever  denomination  or  description^  shall,  in  any  age  or 
in  any  country^  call  to  expiate  their  virtues  on  the  scaffold. 

18.  Ye  stars  !  which  art,  the  p>oetry  of  heaven^  if  in  your  bright 
leaves  we  would  read  the  fate  of  men  and  empires, — 'tis  to  be  for- 
given, that,  in  our  aspirations  to  be  great,  our  destinies  o'crleap 
their  mortal  state,  and  claim  a  kindred  wifh  you ;  for  ye  are  a 
beauty  and  a  mystery,  and  create  in  us  such  love  and  reverence 
from  afar,  that  fortune,  fame,  power,  life,  have  named  them- 
selves a  STAR. 

19.  But  yonder  comes  the  powerful  king  of  day,  rejoicing  in 
the  east.  The  lessening  cloud,  the  kindling  azure,  and  the  moun- 
tain''s  brow  illumed  with  fluid  gold,  his  near  approach  betoken 
glad.  Lo,  NOW,  apparent  all,  aslant  the  dew-bright  earth  and 
colored  air,  he  looks  in  boundless  majesty  abroad,  and  sheda 
the  shining  day,  that  burnished  plays  on  rocks,  and  hills,  and 
towirs,  and  wandering  streams,  high  gleaming  from  afar. 

20.  And  thus,  in  silent  waiting,  stood  the  piles  of  stone  and 
piles  of  wood ;  TILL  DEATH,  who,  in  his  vast  affairs,  ne\r  patu 
things  off — as  men  in  theirs — and  thus,  if  I  the  truth  must  tell, 
does  his  work  finally  and  well,  WINKED  at  our  hero  as  he 
passed,  "Your  house  is  finished,  sir,  at  last;  a  narrower  house 
— a  house  of  clay — your  palace  for  another  day." 

21.  And  when  the  prodigal  son  came  to  himself,  he  said, 
**How  many  hired  servants  of  my  father's  have  bread  enough 
itnc  to  spare,  and  I  perish  with  hunger!     I  will  arise,  and  go  to 


SS  NATIONAL    FIFIH    READER 

my  father;  and  will  say  unto  him,  'Father,  I  have  sinned  against 
heaven  and  before  tliee,  and  am  no  more  worthy  to  be  called 
thy  son  : — make  me  as  one  of  thy  hired  servants.' "  And  he 
arose,  and  was  coming  to  his  father ; — but  while  he  was  yet  a 
great  way  off,  his  father  saw  him,  and  had  compassion,  and  ran, 
and  fell  on  his  neck,  and  kissed  him.  And  the  son  said  unto 
him,  ^''Father,  I  have  sinned  against  heaven  and  before  thee,  and 
am  no  more  worthy  to  he  called  thy  son" 

22.  Tiiou  GLORIOUS  MIRROR,  where  the  Almighty*s  form 
glasses  itself  in  temj^ests ;  in  all  time  {calm  or  convulsed,  in 
breeze,  or  gale,  or  storm,  icing  the  jiole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime  dark 
heaving),  boundless,  endless,  and    sublime — the   image    of 

ETERNITY THE   THRONE    OF    THE   INVISIBLE  *,    CVCn  f'OM   OUt    thy 

slime  the  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made;  each  zone  obeys  thee — 
thou  gocst  forth,  dread,  fathomless,  alone. 

23.  0  WINTER !  ruler  of  the  inverted  year  !  thy  scat- 
tered hair  loith  sleet-like  ashes  filed,  thy  breath  congealed  upon 
thy  li2)s,  thy  cheeks  fringed  with  a  beard  made  white  with  other 
snows  than  those  of  age,  thy  forehead  wrajqied  in  clouds,  a  leaf- 
less branch  thy  sce2')ter,  and  thy  throne  a  sliding  car,  indebted  to 
no  wheels,  but  urged  by  storms  along  its  slippery  way,  I  LOVIi] 
TIIEE,  all  unlovely  as  thou  secm'st,  and  DREADED  as 

tllOU  ART. 

24.  Lo !  the  unlettered  hind,  who  never  knew  to  raise  his 
mind  excursive  to  the  heights  of  abstract  contemjilation,  as  he  sits 
on  the  green  hillock  by  the  hedge-row  side,  lohat  time  the  insect 
swarms  are  murmuring,  and  marks,  in  silent  thought,  the  broken 
clouds,  that  fringe  with  loveliest  hues  the  evening  sky,  feels  in 
his  soul  the  hand  of  nature  rouse  the  thrill  of  gratitude  to  Him 
who  formed  the  goodly  prospect ;  he  beholds  the  god  throned 
in  the  west  ;  and  his  reposing  ear  hears  sounds  angelic  in  the 
fitful  breeze,  that  floats  through  neighboring  cop>se  or  fairy  brake, 
or  lingers,  playful,  on  the  haunted  stream. 

25.  They  shall  hear  of  my  vengeance,  that  would  scorn  to 
LISTEN  to  the  story  of  my  wrongs.  The  miserable  Highland 
DROVER,  bankrupt,  barefooted,  stripped  of  all,  dishonored,  and 
hunted  down,  because  the  avarice  of  others  grasped  at  more  than 
that  poor  all  could  paij,  shall  burst  o  i  them  in  an  awful 
criAKos. 


INFLECTIONS. 


Section  III. — Iij^flectiot^s. 

1.  Inflections  are  tlie  bends  or  slides  of  the  voice, 
Lsed  in  reading  and  speaking. 

There  are  three  ioflections  or  slides  of  the  voice  :  the  Rising 
Inflectiox,  the  Falling  Inflection,  and  the  Circumflex.  A 
mark  inclining  to  the  right '  is  sometimes  used  to  indicate  the 
Rising  Inflection ;  a  mark  inclining  to  the  left,  ^  the  Falling  In- 
flection. When  the  Circumflex  commences  with  a  ridng  and 
ends  with  a  falling  slide  of  the  voice,  it  is  indicated  thus,  ^ ; 
but  when  it  commences  with  a  falling  and  ends  with  a  risiiig 
slide,  it  is  indicated  thus,  ^,  which  the  pupil  will  perceive  is  the 
same  mark  inverted. 

Though  each  of  the  above  marks  always  indicates  an  inflec- 
tion of  the  same  kind^  yet  the  slides  differ  greatly  in  the  degree^ 
or  extent  of  their  rise  or  fall.  In  some,  the  voice  has  a  very 
slight,  and  in  others,  a  very  marked  upward  or  downward  move- 
ment, depending  on  the  nature  of  what  is  expressed.  We  do 
not  give  definite  rules  touching,  these  shades  of  difference  in  the 
degree  of  inflection,  as  they  would  rather  perplex  than  aid  the 
learner.  In  a  few  examples,  however,  this  diflerence  is  indicated 
by  the  use  of  italics  and  capital  letters. 

2.  The  Eising  Inflection  is  the  upward  bend  or  slide 
of  the  voice ;  as,  Do  you  love  your  ho?ne^  f 

3.  The  Falling  Inflection  is  the  downward  bend  or 
slide  of  the  voice ;  as,  When  will  you  go  liom&  f 

The  rising  inflection  carries  the  voice  upward  from  the  gen- 
eral pitchy  and  suspends  it  on  the  highest  tone  required  ;  while 
the  falling  inflection   commences  above  the  general  2^itch,  and 

falls  down  to  it ;  as,  Did  you  say  '^'^  or  v^^?  At  the  end,  or 
final  close,  of  a  declarative  sentence,  when  the  falling  slide  com- 
mences on  the  general  jntch,  and  falls  below  the  key,  it  is  some- 
times called  the  Cadence,  or  falling  slide  of  termination ;  as,  God 

4.  Thf  Circumflex  is  the  union  of  the  two  inilectiona 


1-0  NATIONAL    FlFrH    READER. 

of  the  voice  on  the  same  S3'llable  or  word,  either  com- 
mencing with  the  rising  and  ending  with  the  falling^ 
or  commencing  with  tlie  falling  and  ending  witli  the 
rising^  thus  producing  a  slight  wave  of  the  voice ;  as, 
Mother,  you  have  my  father  much  offended. 

Inflection,  or  the  shde,  is  one  of  the  most  important  divisions 
of  elocution,  because  all  speech  is  made  up  of  slides,  and  because 
the  right  or  wrong  formation  of  these  gives  a  pervading  charac- 
ter to  the  whole  delivery.  It  is  to  the  graceful  formation  of  the 
slides  that  we  are  chiefly  indebted  for  that  easy  and  refined  ut- 
terance which  prevails  in  polished  society ;  while  the  coarse  and 
rustic  tones  of  the  vulgar  are  commonly  owing  to  some  early 
and  erroneous  habit  in  this  respect.  Most  of  the  schoolboy 
faults  in  delivery,  such  as  drawling,  wliining,  and  a  monotonous 
sino-injT  sound,  result  from  a  wronff  formation  of  the  slide,  and 
may  be  anticipated  or  corrected  by  a  proper  course  of  practice 
on  this  element  of  speech. 

A  slide  consists  of  two  parts,  viz. :  the  radical^  or  opening 
sound,  and  the  vanish^  or  gradual  diminution  of  force,  until  the 
sound  is  lost  in  silence.  Three  things  are  necessary  to  the  per- 
fect formation  of  a  sjide. 

1st.  The  opening  sound  must  be  struck  with  a  fall  and  lively 
impulse  of  voice.  • 

2d.  The  diminution  of  force  must  be  regular  and  fequable — 
got  more  rapid  in  one  part  than  another,  but  naturally  and 
nracefully  declining  to  the  last. 
/      3d.  The  final  vanish  must  be  delicately  formed,  without  being 
abrupt  on  the  one  hand,  or  too  much  prolonged  on  the  other. 

Thus,  a  full  opening^  a  gradual  decrease^  and  a  delicate  term- 
ination are  requisite  to  the  perfect  formation  of  a  slide. 

Let  the  pupils  pronounce  the  following  words  wifh  contrasted  inflec- 
tions, using  great  pains  to  form  the  slides  in  the  manner  just  indicated  : 

1.  Call',  call^;  far',  far'' ;  fame',  farae^;  shame',  shame^ ;  air'_ 
air^ ;  scene',  scene^ ;  mile',  mile^ ;  pile',  pile\ 

2.  Roam',  roam^ ;  tool',  tool^ ;  school',  school  ;  pure',  pure'; 
mule',  mule^ ;  join',  join' ;  our',  our\ 

3.  Land',  land' ;  barb',  barb' ;  made',  made' ;  tribe',  tribe^; 
road',  road' ;  mood',  mood^ ;  tube',  tube' ;  loud',  loud\ 


rN"FLECTIONS.  41 

4.  Will',  wiir  ;  right',  riglit^ ;  hope',  hope^ ;  love',  love^ ;  pros- 
per', prosper^ ;  higher',  higher^ ;  safety^,  safety' ;  power',  power^ ; 
talents',  talents';  wisdom',  wisdom';  virtue',  virtue'. 

E.ULES   FOK    THE    UsE   OF   INFLECTIONS. 

1.  Direct  questions,  or  those  that  can  be  answered  by 
ye.H  or  no^  usually  require  the  rising  inflection ;  but  their 
answers,  ihe  falling. 

Examples. 

1.  Do  you  love  that  laughing  child'  ?     1  do\ 

2.  Are  those  purple  plums  and  red-cheeked  peaches  ripe'f 
Yes\ 

3.  May  I  eat  some  of  the  sweet  grapes  that  hang  in  clusters 
by  the  wall'  ?     Yes'. 

4.  Has  any  one  sailed  around  the  earth'  ?  Yes',  Captain 
Cook'. 

5.  Will  you  forsake  us'?  and  will  you  favor  us  no  more'? 

6.  Is  not  this  the  carpenter's  son'  ?  and  is  not  his  mother 
called  Mary'  ?  and  his  brethren,  James',  and  Joses,'  and  Simon', 
and  Judas'  ?  and  his  sistei-s,  are  they  not  all  with  us'  ? 

Exceptions. — The  falliny  iniiection  is  required  when  the 
direct  question  becomes  an  earnest  appeal,  and  the  answer  is 
anticipated ;  and  when  a  direct  question,  not  at  first  understood, 
is  repeated  with  marked  emphasis. 

Examples. 

1.  Are"  you,  my  dear  sir,  willing  to  forgive'  ? 

2.  James,  cain>  you  ever  forget  the  kindness  of  your  mother'? 

3.  Was^  the  lady  that  first  visited  us  as  beautiful  as  the  one 
that  just  left  the  house'  ? 

4.  WiW  her  love  survive  your  neglect'  ?  and  way'  not  you 
expect  the  sneers,  both  of  your  wife',  and  of  her  parents'  ? 

5.  Do  yoii  reside  in  the  city'  ?  W^hat  did  yoU  say,  sir'  ?  Do 
you  reside  in  the  cit}f  ? 

6.  Do  you  think  peace  and  honor  sweet  words'  ?  I  beg  your 
pardon,  sir.     Do  yQU  think  peace  and  honor  sweet  words^  ? 


42  NATIONAL    FirrH    READER. 

2.  Indirect  questions,  or  those  that  can  not  be  an- 
swered by  yes  or  no^  usually  require  the  falling  inflec- 
tion, and  their  answers  the  same. 

Examples. 

1.  Who  can  reward  you  for  your  kindness^  ? 

2.  Wlio  will  pay  for  those  beautiful  flowers^  ?     My  mother\ 

3.  Where  can  you  see  such  rivers  and  lakes^  ?     In  America\ 

4.  Whose  watch  is  this^  ?  and  what  do  you  suppose  it  might 
be  bought  for^  ? 

5.  Whither  have  you  led  me'  ?  and  to  whom  do  these  beauti- 
ful creatures  belong^  ? 

6.  Who  said,  "A  wise  man  is  never  less  alone  than  when  he 
is  alone'?"     Swift\ 

Exceptions. — The  rising  inflection  is  required  when  an  indi- 
rect question  is  used  to  ask  a  repetition  of  what  was  not  at  first 
understood ;  and  when  the  ansivers  to  questions,  whether  direct 
or  indirect,  are  given  in  an  inditfcrent  or  careless  manner. 

/  Examples. 

1.  Wliat  bird  did  you  say  that  is'? 

2.  Whither  did  you  say  you  would  lead  me'? 

3.  Where  did  you  find  those  young  birds'?  In  the  meadow\ 
Whei-e  did  you  say'  ? 

4.  Shall  I  send  James  and  Henry  to  visit  you'  ?   As  you  please'. 

5.  Will  you  be  displeased  if  your  friends  desert  you'  ?  Not 
much'. 

0.  How  many  scholars  did  you  see  in  the  yard'  ?  Some  fifteen 
or  twenty'. 

3.  Questions,  words,  and  clauses,  connected  by  the 
disjunctive  o?',  usually  require  the  rising  inflection  be- 
fore, and  the  falling  after  it ;  though,  when  or  is  used 
conjunctively y  it  takes  the  rising  inflection  cfter,  as  well 
as  hefore  it. 

Examples. 

1.  Did  you  do  that  kind  act  on  the  Sabbath  day',  or  on 
Monday'? 


IXFLECTIONS.  43 

2.  Docs  that  beautiful  lady  deserve  praise',  or  blame^  ? 

3.  It  was  laro-e'  or  sinall\  ripe'  or  unripe\  sweet'  or  sour\ 

4.  You  saw  an  old'  man  or  a  young'  man,  a  tall'  man  or  h 
short'  man. 

5.  Can  youth',  or  health',  or  strength',  or  honor',  or  pleasure^, 
satisfy  the  soul'? 

6.  Ilast  thou  entered  into  the  springs  of  the  sea'?  or  hast 
thou  walked  in  search  of  the  depths^?  llast  thou  an  arm  like 
God'?  or  canst  thou  thunder  like  him'? 

4.  Wlien  words  or  clauses  are  contrasted  or  com- 
pared, the  first  part  nsnallj  has  the  rising^  and  the  last 
the  falling  inflection ;  tliongh,  when  one  side  of  the 
contrast  is  affirmed^  and  the  other  denied^  generally  the 
latter  has  the  rising  inflection,  in  whatever  order  thej 
occur. 

Examples. 

1.  I  have  seen  the  eflects  of  love'  and  hatred',  joy'  and  grief \ 
hope'  and  despair'. 

2.  A  wise''  son  maketh  a  glad  father' ;  but  a  foolish'  son  is  the 
heaviness  of  his  mother'. 

3.  Men's  words'  are  like  leaves',  and  their  deeds'  like  fruits'. 

4.  "We  should  judge  of  others,  not  by  our'  light,  but  by  their 
own'. 

5.  The  first  object  of  a  true  zeal  is  that  Ave  may  do  right',  not 
that  we  may  prosper^. 

6.  The  supreme  law  of  a  State  is  not  its  safety',  its  power',  its 
prosperity' :  there  is  a  higher  law,  even  Virtue',  Rectitude',  the 
Will  of  God'. 

5.  J  amiliar  address,  and  the  pause  of  suspension,  de- 
noting condition,  supposition,  or  incompleteness,  usually 
require  the  risiiig  inflection. 

Examples. 

1.  OfTicers',  soldiers',  friends',  Americans',  our  country  niust 
b^i  free. 

2.  I'  thine  enemy  hunger',  give  him  brea^J  to  eat;  if  he 
thirst'  give  him  water  to  drink. 


44  NATIONAL    FIFTH    KKADEK. 

'3.  To  sit  np  late  at  night',  to  use  intoxicating  dunks',  and  to 
indulge  evil  passions',  are  things  not  peimitted  in  this  school. 

4.  Consider  (and  may  the  consideration  sink  deep  into  your 
heart' !)  the  fatal  consequences  of  a  wicked  life. 

5.  The  sun  being  risen',  and  the  discourse  being  ended',  we 
lesunied  our  march. 

6.  His  adventures',  his  toils',  his  privations',  his  sufferings',  iiia 
hair-breadth  escapes',  and  his  struggles  for  victory  and  liberty', 
are  all  remembered. 

6.  The  language  of  concession,  politeness,  admiration, 
entreaty,  and  tender  emotions,  usually  requires  tlie  rising 
inflection. 

Examples. 

1.  Your  remark  is  true' :  the  manners  of  this  country  have 
rot  all  the  desirable  ease  and  freedom'.  We  are  improving, 
however,  in  this  respect. 

2.  My  dear  sir'',  we  ought  not  to  be  discouraged  at  the  fickle- 
ness of  fortune'. 

3.  0  noble  friend' !  Thy  self-denial  is  wonderful' !  thy  deeds 
of  charity  are  innumerable' !     Never  will  I  forget  thee' ! 

4.  Then  Judah  came  near  unto  him,  and  said',  O  my  lord', 
let  thy  servant',  I  pray  thee',  speak  a  word  in  my  lord's  ears', 
and  let  not  thine  anger  burn  against  thy  servant',  for  thou  art 
even  as  Pharaoh\ 

5.  0  my  son  Absalom'!  my  son',  my  soi>  Absalom'!  Would 
God  I  had  died  for  thee',  Absalom',  my  son',  my  son'  I 

7.  Tlie  end  of  a  sentence  that  expi-esses  completenesb, 
conclusion,  or  j-esult,  usually  requires  the  falling  slide 
of  termination,  which  commence?  on  the  general  pitch 
and  falls  below  it;  as.  The  rose  is  beautiv^.* 

Examples. 

1.  That  industrious  scholar  has  finished  his  task. 

2.  The  great  end  of  society  is  to  give  free  scope  t/3  the  exei- 
tions  of  all. 

3.  The  idea  of  right  can  never  be  eff'aced  from  the  huiium 
mind. 


INFLECTIONS.  45 

8.  At  each  complete  termination  of  tlionglit,  before 
the  close  of  a  sentence,  \\iQfallmg  inflection  is  "usually 
required ;  though,  when  several  pauses  occur,  the  last 
but  one  generally  has  the  idsing  inflection. 

Examples. 

1.  Every  human  being  has  the  idea  of  duty^;  and  to  unfold 
this  idea,  is  the  end  for  which  life  was  given  him. 

2.  The  rocks  crumble^ ;  the  trees  fall^ ;  the  leaves  fade',  and 
the  grass  withers. 

3.  The  tears  of  the  sufferers  are  already  dried\  their  rage  is 
hushed\  their  complaints  are  silenced',  and  they  no  longer  claim 
our  pity. 

9.  The  language  of  command,  rebuke,  contempt,  ex- 
clamation, and  terror,  usually  requires  the  falling  in- 
flection. 

Examples. 

1.  Go  to  the  a^r,  thou  sluggard,  consider  her  ways,  and  be 
wise\ 

2.  Awake"!  ye  sons  of  Spain.     Awake^l     Advance"'! 

3.  If  ye  are  men^  follow  me^ !  Strike  down  yon  guard\ — gain 
the  mountain  passes\ — and  then  do  bloody  work\ 

4.  Thou  slave\  thou  wretch\  thou  coward^ !  Away^  from  my 
Bight' ! 

5.  Mercy'  on  me !  breathe  it  not  aloud\  the  wild  winds  must 
not  hear'  it, — 'tis  a  foul  murder'. 

6.  What  a  piece  of  work  is  man' !  what  a  subject  of  contra- 
diction' !  how  noble' !  how  mean' !  the  glory  and  the  scandal  of 
the  universe'. 

10.  The  last  member  of  a  commencing  series,  and  the 
last  but  one  of  a  concluding  series,  usually  require  the 
rising  inflection ;  and  all  others  \hQ  falling. 

Examples. 

1.  In  eloquence  we  see  sublimity',  beauty',  genius',  and 
power',  in  their  noblest  exercise'. 


40  NAThJNAL    FIFTH    KKaDKK. 

2.  It  is  this  dept]i\  this  vvf!ight\  this  elevation  of  principle^ 
this  purity  of  motive',  which  makes  them  the  admiration  of  the 
woi-]d\ 

3.  But  tlie  fruit  of  tlie  Spirit  is  love\  joy\  peace\  long-suffer- 
iiig\  gentleness^  goodness\  faith\  meekness',  temperance\ 

4.  In  most  armies,  the  ranks  are  filled  wifh  the  depraved\  the 
desperate',  the  cruel\  the  bloody',  and  the  rapacious\ 

5.  The  youth  longs  to  be  at  age\  then  to  be  a  man  of  busi- 
ness\  then  to  make  up  an  estate\  then  to  arrive  at  honors',  and 
then  to  retire\ 

11.  Emphatic  rejpetition^  and  tlie  pointed  enumeration 
oi particulars^  require  \hQ  falling  inflection. 

The  stress  of  voice  should  be  gradually  increased  on  each 
repetition,  or  succession  of  particulars.  The  preceding  rule  with 
regard  to  a  commencing  and  a  concluding  series,  should  be  duly 
observed. 

Examples. 

1.  If  I  were  an  American,  while  a  foreign  troop  was  landed 
in  my  country,  /  never  would  lay  doivn  my  arms — never"" ! 
NEVER^ !  NEVER^ ! 

2.  His  first  cry  was,  God  and  liberty^.  His  second  cry  was, 
God  and  LiBERTy\     His  third  cry  was,  GOD  AND  LIBERTY^ 

3.  He  aspired  to  be  the  highest^ ;  above  the  people\  above 
the  laws\  above  his  country',  above  surrounding  nations\ 

4.  They,  through  faith,  subdued  kingdoms',  wrought  right- 
eousness\  obtained  promises\  stopped  the  mouth  of  lions\ 
quenched  the  violence  of  fire\  escaped  the  edge  of  the  sword\ 
out  of  weakness  were  made  strong\  waxed  valiant  in  fight', 
turned  to  flight  the  armies  of  the  aliens\ 

12.  The  Cikcumflex  is  used  in  language  of  irony, 
sarcasm,  derision,  condition,  and  contrast. 

Examples. 

1.  He  is  a  rare  pattern  of  humanity. 

2.  That  lulled  them  as  the  north  wind  does  the  sea. 

3.  One  may  be  wise,  though  he  be  poor. 

4.  No  doubt  y§  are  the  people,  and  wisdom  will  die  with  yoQ. 


MODULATION.  47 

5.  They  tell  us  to  be  moderate ;  but  they,  they  are  to  revel 
in  profusion. 

6.  Is  tliy  servant  a  dog,  that  he  should  do  this  great  thing  ? 
Y.  They  will  give  us  peace!     Yes;  such  peace  as  the  wolf 

gives  to  the  lamb — the  kite  to  the  dove. 

8.  Talk  to  me  of  danger  ?  Death  and  shame !  Is  not  my 
vace  as  high,  as  ancient,  and  as  proud  as  thine  ? 

9.  They  follow  an  adventurer  whom  they  fear,  and  obey  a 
power  which  they  hate;  w^6  serve  a  monarch  whom  wi  love, — 
a  God  whom  we  adore. 

1 0.  "  'Tis  green,  'tis  green,  sir,  I  assure  ye !" 
"  Green !"  cries  the  other,  in  a  fury ; 

"  Why,  sir,  d'ye  think  I've  lost  my  eyes  ?" 


Section  IV. — Modulation. 

Modulation  is  the  act  of  varying  the  voice  in  reading 
and  speaking.  Its  general  divisions  are,  Fitch,  Force, 
Quality,  and  Eate. 

The  four  general  divisions,  or  modes  of  vocal  sound,  presented 
in  this  section,  are  properly  the  elements  of  Expression ;  as,  by 
the  combination  of  the  different  forms  and  varieties  of  these 
modes.  Emphasis,  Slur,  Monotone,  and  other  divisions  of  Ex- 
pression are  produced. 


Fitch. 

Fitch  refers  to  the  Icey-note  of  the  voice — its  general 
degree  of  elevation  or  depression,  in  reading  and  speak- 
ing. We  mark  three  general  distinctions  of  Fitch : 
High,  Moderate,  and  Low. 

1.  High  Fitch  is  that  which  is  heard  in  calling  to  a 
person  at  a  distance.  It  is  used  in  expressing  elevated 
and  joyous  feelings  and  strong  emotion  ;  as, 

1.  Go  ring  the  bells,  and  fire  the  guns, 

And  fling  the  starry  banners  out ; 


48  NATIONAI.    KII<TH    READER. 

V 

Shout  "  Freedom  !"  till  your  lisping  ones 
Give  back  their  cradle  shout. 

2.  Ye  crags  and  peaks,  I'm  wifh  you  once  again  I 
I  hold  to  you  the  hands  you  first  beheld, 
To  show  they  still  are  free.     Methinks  I  hear 
A  spirit  in  your  echoes  answer  me, 
And  bid  your  tenant  welcome  to  his  home 
Again !  0,  sacred  forms,  how  proud  ye  look 
How  high  you  lift  your  heads  into  the  sky ! 
How* huge  you  are!  how  mighty  and  how  free! 
Ye  are  the  things  that  tower,  that  shine,  whose  smile 
Makes  glad,  whose  frown  is  terrible,  whose  forms, 
Robed  or  unrobed,  do  all  the  impress  wear 
Of  awe  divine.     Ye  guards  of  liberty ! 
I'm  with  you  once  again ! — I  call  to  you 
With  all  my  voice !     I  hold  my  hands  to  you 
To  show  they  still  are  free.     I  rush  to  you, 
As  though  I  could  embrace  you ! 

8.  First  eame  renowned  Warwick, 

Who  cried  aloud,  '•''What  scourge  for  perjury 
Can  this  dark  monarchy  afford  false  Clarence  f^ 
And  so  he  vanish'd.     Then  came  wandering  by 
A  shadow  like  an  angpJ,  wifli  bright  hair 
Dabbled  in  blood ;  and  he  shriek'd  out,  aloud, — 
"  Clarence  is  come — false,  fleeting,  perjured  Clarence  ; 
Seize  on  him,  ye  furies,  take  him  to  your  torments^'' 

2.  Moderate  Pitch  is  that  which  is  heard  in  common 
conversation.  It  is  used  in  expressing  ordinary  thought 
and  moderate  emotion ;  as, 

1.  The  morning  itself,  few  people,  inhabitants  of  cities,  know 
any  thing  about.  Among  all  our  good  people,  not  one  in  a 
thousand  sees  the  sun  rise  once  in  a  year.  They  know  nothing 
of  the  morning.  Their  idea  of  it  is,  that  it  is  that  part  of  the 
day  that  comes  along  after  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  beef-steai^,  or  a 
piece  of  toast. 

2.  The  way  to  wealth,  if  you  desire  it,  is  as  plain  as  the  way 
to  market.     It  depends  chiefly  on  two  words,  in'dustry  and  fru- 


pricu.  40 

gality :  that  is,  waste  neither  time  nor  money,  but  make  ihe  best 
use  of  both.  Without  industry  and  frugahty,  nothing  will  do, 
and  wifti  them,  every  thing.  He  that  gets  all  he  can  honestly, 
and  saves  all  he  gets,  will  certainly  become  rich — if  that  Being, 
who  governs  the  world,  to  whom  all  should  look  for  a  blessing 
on  their  honest  endeavors,  doth  not,  in  his  wise  providence,  oth- 
erwise determine. 

3  Low  Pitch  is  that  which  is  lieard  when  the  voice 
falls  below  the  comnion  speaking  key.  It  is  used  in 
expressing  rev^erence,  awe,  sublimity,  and  tender  emo- 
tions; as, 

1.  'Tis  midnight's  holy  hour,  and  silence  now 
Is  brooding,  like  a  gentle  spirit,  o'er 

The  still  and  pulseless  world.     Hark !  on  the  winds 
The  bells'  deep  tones  are  swelling; — 'tis  the  knell 
Of  the  departed  year.     No  funeral  train 
Is  sweeping  past,  yet,  on  the  stream  and  wood, 
Wifh  melancholy  light,  the  moonbeams  rest. 
Like  a  pale,  spotless  shroud ;  the  air  is  stirr'd 
As  by  a  mourner's  sigh ;  and  on  yon  cloud, 
That  floats  so  still  and  placidly  through  heaven, 
The  spirits  of  the  seasons  seem  to  stand. 

2.  Softly  woo  away  her  breath. 

Gentle  Death ! 
Let  her  leave  thee  wifh  no  strife, 
Tender,  mournful,  murmuring  Life  I 
She  hath  seen  her  happy  day  : 

She  hath  had  her  bud  and  blossom : 
Now  she  pales  and  sinks  away. 

Earth,  into  thy  gentle  bosom ! 

Exercise  on  Pitch. 

Select  a  sentence,  and  deliver  it  on  as  low  a  key  as  possible; 

then  repeat  it,  gradually  elevating  the  pitch,  until  the  top  of  the 

voice  shall  have  been  reached ;  when  the  exercise  may  be  re* 

versed.     So  valuable  is  this  exercise,  that  it  should  be  repeated 

s  Often  as  possible. 

3 


50  NATIONAL    Fli-TU    KKaDEK. 

FoECE. 

Force  is  the  vohime  or  loudness  of  voice,  used  on  the 
same  key  or  pitch,  when  reading  or  speaking. 

Though  the  degrees  of  force  are  numerous,  varying  from  a 
soft  wliisper  to  a  shout,  yet  they  may  be  considered  as  three : 
Loud,  Moderate,  and  Gentle. 

1.  Louu  FoKCE  is  used  in  strong,  but  suppressed  pas- 
sions, and  in  emotions  of  soi'i'ow,  grief,  respect,  venera 
tion;  dignity,  apathy,  and  c(mtrition ;  as, 

1.  B.oyf  \\ke  a faivninf/ 2^ublica7i  he  looks] 
I  hate  him,  for  that  he  is  a  Chrutian. 
'If  I  but  Catch  him  (nice  upon  the  hipy 

I  will  feed  fat  the  ancient  grudge  I  bear  him, 

2.  Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  liis  fame  fresh  and  gory; 
We  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  raised  not  a  stone. 
But  we  left  him  alone  in  his  glory ! 

3.  O  thou  that  witli  surpassing  glory  crown'd 
Look'st  from  thy  sole  dominion,  like  the  God 
Of  this  new  world ;  at  whose  sight  all  the  stars 
Hide  their  diminish'd  neads ;  to  thee  I  call, 
But  with  no  friendly  voice,  and  add  thy  name, 

0  Sun,  to  tell  thee  how  I  hate  thy  beams, 
That  bring  to  my  remembrance  from  what  state 

1  fell,  how  glorious  once  above  thy  sphere ; 
Till  pride  and  worse  ambition  threw  me  down. 
Warring  in  heaven  against  heaven's  matchless  King. 

2.  Moderate  Force,  or  a  medium  degree  of  loudness, 
is  used  in  ordinary  assertion,  narration,  and  descrip- 
tion; as, 

1.  Remember  this  saying,  "The  good  paymaster  is  lord  ol  an- 
other man's  purse."  He  that  is  known  to  pay  punctually,  and 
exactly  at  the  time  he  promises,  may,  at  any  time,  and  on  any 
occasion,  raise  all  the  money  his  friends  can  spare.  This  is 
sometimes  of  great  use.     After  in'dustry  and  frugality,  nothing 


FORCE.  51 

contributes  more  to  the  raising  of  a  yoimg  man  in  the  world, 
than  punctuality  and  justice  in  all  his  dealings ;  therefore,  nevei 
keep  borrowed  money  an  hour  beyond  the  time  you  promised, 
lest  a  disappointment  shut  up  your  friend's  purse  forever. 

2.  If  the  Bible  should  perish  out  of  our  language,  it  could 
almost  be  gathered  up  again,  in  substance,  from  out  of  our 
hymns — that  take  flight  from  the  very  period  of  creation,  and 
fold  their  wings  only  when  they  touch  the  crystal  battlements. 
When  the  birds  begin  to  look  from  the  north  southward,  in  au- 
tumnal weather,  a  few,  springing  from  the  reeds  and  shrubs  ol 
Labrador,  begin  the  aerial  car'avan,  and,  as  they  wind  south- 
ward, out  of  every  tree  and  every  copse,  fi'om  orchard  and  gar 
den,  come  forth  new  singers,  increasing  in  numbers  at  every 
furlong,  until  at  length,  coming  down  fjom  their  high  pathways 
in  innumerable  flocks,  they  cover  provinces  and  fill  torests,  and 
are  heard  triumphing  through  unfrosted  orchards,  amidst  the 
vines,  the  olives,  and  the  oranges,  wifh  such  wondrous  bursts  of 
song,  that,  as  one  lies  between  sleep  and  waking,  he  might  think 
the  Advent  renewed,  and  God's  angels  to  be  in  the  air.  And  so 
it  has  pleased  us  often,  in  thought,  to  liken  the  rise,  and  spread, 
and  flight,  and  multitude  of  hymns  that  have  come  down  from 
the  beginnings  of  time  into  God's  pleasant  gardens  and  vine- 
yards, in  our  days,  increasing  as  they  flew\  Only,  there  is  no 
bird  that  can  sing  like  a  hymn.  There  are  no  meanings  in  all 
the  mingled  sounds  of  all  the  singers  of  the  grove,  or  hedge,  or 
lawn,  like  the  voices  of  hymns  that  utter  all  the  mysteries  ot 
Christ's  love  in  the  human  soul. 

3.  Gentle  Force,  or  a  slight  degree  of  loudness,  is 
used  to  express  caution,  fear,  secrecy,  and  tender  emo- 
tions; as, 

1.  Heard  ye  the  whisper  of  the  breeze, 

As  softly  it  murmur'd  by. 
Amid  the  shadow  y  forest  trees  ? 

It  tells,  wifh  meaning  sigh. 
Of  the  bowers  of  bliss  on  that  viewless  shore, 
Where  the  weary  spirit  shall  sin  no  more. 

2.  They  are  sleeping !     Who  are  sleeping? 

Pause  a  moment — softly  tread ; 


62  NATIONAL    Fli<TH    KEADER. 

Anxious  fi'iendH  are  fondly  keeping 

Vigils  by  the  sleeper's  bed ! 
Other  hopes  have  all  forsaken  : 

One  remains — that  slumber  deep  : 
Speak  not,  lest  the  slumberer  waken 

From  that  sweet,  that  saving  sleep. 

Exercise  on  Force. 

Select  a  sentence,  and  deliver  it  on  a  given  key,  with  voice 
just  sufficient  to  be  heard  :  then  gradually  increase  the  quantity 
until  the  whole  power  of  the  voice  is  brought  into  play.  Re 
verse  the  process,  without  change  of  key,  ending  with  a  whisper 
This  exercise  is  so  valuable  that  it  can  not  be  too  frequently  re 
peated. 


Quality. 

Quality  lias  reference  to  the  kinds  of  tone  used  m 
reading  and  speaking.  Tliey  are  the  Pure  Tone,  the 
Orotund,  the  Aspirated,  the  Guttural,  and  the  Trem- 
bling. 

1.  The  Pure  Tone  is  a  clear,  smooth,  round,  flowing 
sound,  accompanied  wifti  moderate  pitch ;  and  is  used 
to  express  peace,  cheerfulness,  joy,  and  love ;  as, 

1.  Methinks  I  love  all  common  things ; 

The  common  air,  the  common  flower ; 
The  dear,  kind,  common  thought,  that  springs 

From  hearts  that  have  no  other  dower. 

No  other  wealth,  no  other  power, 
Save  love ;  and  will  not  that  repay 
For  all  else  fortune  tears  away  ? 

2.  It  is  the  hour,  when  from  the  boughs 

The  nightingale's  high  note  is  heard ; 
It  is  the  hour  when  lovers'  vows 

Seem  sweet  in  every  whisper'd  word ; 
And  gentle  winds,  and  waters  near. 
Make  music  to  the  lonely  ear. 
Eac/i  flower  the  dev/s  have  liohllv  wet. 


QrAMTY.  53 

And  in  tlic  sky  the  stars  are  met, 

And  on  the  wave  is  deeper  bhie, 

And  on  tlie  leaf  a     .owner  hue, 

And  in  the  heaven  tliat  clear  obscure, 

So  softly  dark,  and  darkly  pure, 

Which  follows  the  decline  of  day. 

As  twilight  melts  benea(3i  the  moon  away 

2  The  Okotund  is  the  pure  tone  deepened,  enlarged, 
and  intensitied.  It  is  used  in  all  energetic  and  vehe- 
ment forms  of  expression,  and  in  giving  utterance  to 
grand  and  sublime  emotions  ;  as, 

1.  Strike — till  the  last  arra'd  foe  expires ; 
Strike — for  your  altars  and  your  fires ; 
STRIKE — for  the  green  graves  of  your  sires; 

God — and  your  native  land! 

2.  The  sky  is  changed  !  and  such  a  change  !     0  Night, 
And  Storm,  and  Darkness,  ye  are  wondrous  strong, 
Yet  lovely  in  your  strength,  as  is  the  light 

Of  a  dark  eye  in  Atoman  !     Far  along. 
From  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling  crags  among. 
Leaps  the  live  thunder ! — not  from  one  lone  cloud, 
But  every  mountain  now  hath  found  a  tongue ; 
And  Jura  answers,  through  her  misty  shroud. 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  to  her  aloud ! 

3  Once  more  unto  the  breach,  dear  friends,  once  more; 
Or  close  the  wall  up  with  our  English  dead. 

Oh,  when  the  blast  of  war  blows  in  our  ears, 
Then  imitate  the  action  of  the  tiger : 
Stiffen  the  sinews — summon  up  the  blood — 
Disguise  fair  nature  with  hard-favor'd  rage ; 
Then  lend  the  eye  a  terrible  aspect ; 
Ay,  set  the  teeth  and  stretch  the  nostrils  wide. 
Hold  hard  the  breath,  and  bend  up  every  spirit 
To  its  full  height ! — On,  on,  you  noble  English, 
Whose  blood  is  set  from  fathers  of  war-proof! 
Cry,  Heaven  for  Harr}^,  England,  and  St.  George  1 

3.  The  AspuiATED  Tone  is  an  exyjulsion  of  the  breath 


54  NATIONAL    FIKl'H    KKADKR. 

more  or  less  strong,  the  words  being  spoken  in  a  wliis- 
per.  It  is  nsecl  to  expj-ess  amazement,  tear,  terror,  hor- 
ror, revenge,  and  renioise;  as, 

1.  How  ill  this  taper  burns! 
Ha!  who  cornea  here? 

Cold  drops  of  sweat  hung  on  my  trembling  i!csh, 
My  blood  grows  chilly^  and  1  freeze  ivilh  horror  f 

2.  The  ancient  Earl,  wifh  stately  grace, 
Would  Clara  on  her  palfrey  place, 
And  whisper,  in  an  under-tone, 

"  Let  the  hawk  stooj),  his  'p^'^y  is  Jlown." 

4.  The  Guttitral  is  a  deep  under-tone,  used  to  express 
hatred,  contempt,  and  loathing.  It  usually  occurs  on 
tlie  empliatic  words ;  as, 

1.  Thou  slave,  thou  wretch,  thou  coward/ 
Thou  cold-blooded  slave/ 

Thou  wear  a  lion's  hide  ? 

Doff  it,  for  shame,  and  hang 

A  calf-skm  on  those  recreant  limbs. 

2.  Thou  stand'st  at  length  before  me  undisguised, 
Of  all  earth's  groveling  crew  the  most  accursed. 
Thou  worm  !  thou  viper ! — to  tliy  native  earth 
Return !    Away  !    Thou  art  too  base  for  man 
To  tread  upon.     Thou  scum !  thou  reptile ! 

5.  TuE  Trp:mulous  Tone,  or  tremor,  consists  of  a  trem- 
ulous iteration,  or  a  number  of  impulses  of  sound  of  the 
least  assignable  duration.  It  is  used  in  excessive  grief, 
pity,  plaintiveness,  and  tenderness  ;  in  an  intense  de- 
gree of  suppressed  excitement,  or  satisfaction ;  and 
when  the  voice  is  enfeebled  by  age. 

The  tremulous  tone  should  not  be  applied*  throughout  the 
whole  of  an  extended  passage,  but  only  on  selected  emphatic 
words,  as  otherwise  the  effect  would  be  monotonous.  In  tlie 
second  of  the  following  examples,  wliere  the  tremor  o^  age  is 
8U})})0sed  to  be  joined  wifh  that  of  supplicating  distress,  the 
tremulous  tone  may  be  applied  to  every  emphatic  syllal»le  :apa- 


QUALITT.  55 

ble  of  prolonoTHtion,  wLich  is  tlie  case  with  all  except  tliose  of 
pity  and  .shortest ;  but  even  these  may  receive  it  in  a  limited 
degree.  The  third  example,  ANhich  is  taken  from  Paradise 
Lost,  in  the  tenth  book,  calls  for  a  marked  tremulous  movement 
on  emphatic  words ;  as  speech  attended  with  tears  always  ex- 
hibits more  or  less  tremor,  and  Eve  is  said,  in  the  lines  that  fol- 
low, to  have  "  ended  weeping,"  and  her  supplication  to  have 
been  accompanied  "with  tears  that  ceased  not  flowing."  Some 
of  the  syllables,  however,  embracing  the  deepest  feeling  of  con 
trition,  have  not  sufficient  quantity  to  allow  the  eminent  intona- 
tion of  the  tremor.  The  word  beg  and  the  accented  syllable  of 
uttermost  are  of  this  nature.  The  tremulous  tone  may  be  eflfect- 
aally  placed  on  bermye,  owly,  for/or?z,  thee^  more.,  and  other 
words,  which,  through  their  indefinite  quantity,  give  ample 
measure  to  intonation. 

Examples. 

1.  0  love^  remain!     It  is  not  yet  near  day ! 
It  was  the  mg\\imgale^  and  not  the  lark., 
That  pierced  the  fearful  hollow  of  thine  ear ; 
Nightly  she  sings  in  yon  pomegranate-tree. 
l^alieve  me,  love,  it  was  the  nightingale. 

2.  Pity  the  sorrows  of  a  poor  old  man. 

Whose  trembling  limbs  have  bonie  him  to  your  dooi^ 
Whose  days  are  dwindled  to  the  shortest  span : 

0  give  relief,  and  Heaven  will  bless  your  store. 

3.  Forsake  me  not  thus,  Adam  !     ^^'itness,  Heaven, 
What  love  sincere  and  reverence  in  my  heart 

1  bear  thee,  and  unwitting  have  oiFendcd, 
Unhappily  deceived  !     Thy  suppliant, 

I  beg,  and  clasp  thy  knees :  bereave  me  not, 

W^hereon  I  live,  thy  gentle  looks,  thy  aid, 

Thy  counsel  in  this  uttermost  distress, 

My  only  strength  and  stay.     Forlorn  of  thee. 

Whither  should  I  betake  me,  where  subsist  ? 

While  yet  we  Hve,  scarce  one  short  hour  perhaps. 

Between  us  two  let  there  be  peace;  both  joining. 

As  joinVl  in  injuries,  one  enmity 

Against  a  foe  by  doom  express  assigu'd  us. 


66  NA'lIoNAL    FIFTH    RKADKK. 

Tliat  ci'iicl  serpent.     On  me  exercise  not 
Thy  hate  for  this  misery  befallen ; 
On  me  already  lost,  me  than  thyself 
More  miserable  I     Both  have  sinn'd  ;  but  thou 
Against  God  only ;  1  against  God  and  thee, 
And  to  the  place  of  judgment  will  return, 
There  wifli  my  cries  importune  Heaven,  that  all 
The  sentence,  from  thy  head  removed,  may  light 
On  me,  sole  cause  to  thee  of  all  this  woe; 
Me,  me  only,  just  object  of  his  ire ! 


Rate. 

Kate  refers  to  movemeut,  and  is  Quick,  Moderate, 
or  Slow. 

1.  Quick  Rate  is  used  to  express  joy,  mirth,  con- 
fusion, violent  anger,  and  sudden  fear ;  as, 

1.  Away !  away !  our  fires  stream  bright 

Along  the  frozen  river. 
And  their  arrowy  ^parkles  of  brilliant  light 
On  the  forest  branches  quiver. 

2.  Away  !  away  to  the  rocky  glen. 

Where  the  deer  are  wildly  bounding! 
And  the  hills  shall  echo  in  gladness  again. 
To  the  hunter's  bugle  sounding. 

3.  The  lake  has  burst !     The  lake  has  burst ! 

Down  through  the  chasms  the  wild  waves  flee: 
They  gallop  along,  witii  a  roaring  song. 
Away  to  the  eager  awaiting  sea! 

4.  And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste:  the  steed. 

The  mustering  sijuadron,  aiul  the  clattering  car 
Went  pouring  forward  witii  impetuous  speed. 
And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war. 

2.  Moderate  Rate  is  used  in  ordinary  assertion,  nar- 
ration, and  descri])tion  ;  in  cheerfulness,  and  the  geutlei 
forms  of  the  emotions  ;  as, 

1.  When  the  sun  walks  upon  the  blue  sea-waters, 
Smiiiug  the  •shadows  fiDm  yor  purple  hills. 


RATE. 


57 


We  pace  tliis  Sxi5re, — I  and  iny  bi  other  here, 

Good  Gerald.     We  arise  with  the  shrill  lark, 

And  both  unbind  our  brows  from  sullen  dreams ; 

And  then  doth  my  dear  brother,  who  hath  worn 

His  cheek  all  pallid  with  perpetual  thought. 

Enrich  me  with  sweet  words ;  and  6ft  a  smile 

Will  stray  amidst  his  lessons,  as  he  marks 

New  wonder  paint  my  cheek,  or  fondly  reads, 

Upon  the  burning  page  of  my  black  eyes, 

The  truth  reflected  which  he  casts  on  me : — 

For  he  is  like  the  sun, — giving  me  light ; 

Pouring  into  the  caves  of  my  young  brain 

Knowledge  from  his  bright  fountains !     Thus  it  is 

I  drink  in  the  starry  truth.     Science  and  Art, 

And  Learning  pale,  all  crown  my  thoughts  with  flowers; 

And  Music  waiteth  on  me,  sad  and  sweet ; 

And  great  Imagination,  for  viy  sake. 

Lets  loose  her  dreams,  and  bids  her  wonders  flow 

By  me, — until  I  talk  in  poetry ! 

2.  Warriors  and  statesmen  have  their  meed  of  praise, 

And  what  they  do,  or  suff'er,  men  record ; 
But  the  long  sacrifice  of  womaiUs  days 

Passes  without  a  thought,  without  a  word ; 
And  many  a  lofty  struggle  for  the  sake 

Of  duties  sternly,  faithfully  fulfill'd — 
For  which  the  anxious  mind  must  watch  and  wake, 

And  the  strong  feelings  of  the  heart  be  still'd — 
Goes  by  unheeded  as  the  summer  wind,  ^ 

And  leaves  no  memory  and  no  trace  behind ! 
Yet  it  may  be,  more  lofty  courage  dwells 

In  one  meek  heart  which  braves  an  adverse  fate, 
Than  his  whose  ardent  soul  indignant  swells 

Warm'd  by  the  fight,  or  cheer'd  through  high  debate. 
The  soldier  dies  surrounded :  could  he  live^ 
Alone  to  suffer,  and  alone  to  strive  ? 

3.  Slow  Rate  is  used  to  express  grandeur,  vastness, 
pathos,  solemnity,  adoration,  horror,  and  consterna- 
tion; as. 


58  NATIONAL   FlVrn    READER. 

1.  O  thou  Eternal  One !  wbase  presence  bright 

All  space  doth  occupy,  all  motion  guide ; 
Unchanged  through  time's  all-devastating  flight; 
Thou  only  God  !    Thei'e  is  no  God  beside  1 

2.  The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day  ; 

The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea; 
The  plowman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

3.  Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark-blue  ocean — roll ! 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain ; 
Man  marks  the  earth  witli  ruin — his  control 
Stops  with  the  shore  ;-^upon  the  watery  plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own, 
When,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain. 

He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan, 
Without  a  grave,  unknell'd,  uncoffin'd,  a  ad  unknown. 

Exercise  on  Rate. 

Select  a  sentence,  and  deliver  it  as  slow  as  may  be  possible 
without  drawling.  Repeat  the  sentence  with  a  slight  increase 
of  rate,  until  you  shall  have  reached  a  rapidity  of  utterance  at 
which  distinct  articulation  ceases.  Having  done  this,  reverse  the 
process,  repeating  slower  and  slower.  This  exercise  will  enable 
pupils  to  acquire  tlie  ability  to  increase  and  diminish  rate  at 
pleasure,  which  is  one  of  the  most  important  elements  of  good 
reading  and  speaking. 


Section  V. — Mon^otone. 

Monotone  consists  of  a  degree  of  sameness  of  soun^^ 
or  tone,  in  a  number  of  successive  words  or  syllables. 

It  is  very  seldom  the  case  that  a  perfect  sameness  is  to  be  ob- 
served in  reading  any  passage  or  sentence.  But  very  little 
variety  of  tone,  or  in  other  words,  the  monotone,  is  to  be  used 
in  reading  either  prose  or  verse  which  contains  elevated  descrip- 
tions, or  emotions  of  solemnity,  sublimity,  or   reverencxj.     The 


MONOTONE.  59 

monotone  usually  requires  a  low  tone  of  the  voice,  loud  or  pro- 
idnged  force,  and  a  slow  rate  of  utterance. 

Exercises. 

1.  Lord,  tlicu  hast  been  our  dwelling-place  in  all  generations. 
Before  the  mountains  were  brought  forth,  or  ever  thou  hadst 
formed  the  earth  and  the  world,  even  from  everlasting  to  evei- 
la-sting,  Thou  art  God. 

2.  Then  the  earth  shook  and  trembled ;  the  foundations,  also, 
of  the  hills  moved,  and  were  shaken,  because  he  was  wroth. 
There  went  up  a  smoke  out  of  his  nostrils,  and  fire  out  of  his 
mouth  devoured.  He  bowed  the  heavens,  also,  and  came  down, 
and  darkness  was  under  his  feet ;  and  he  rode  upon  a  cherub, 
and  did  fly  ;  yea,  he  did  fly  upon  the  wings  of  the  wind. 

3.  Man  dieth,  and  wasteth  away :  yea,  man  giveth  up  the 
ghost,  and  where  is  he  ?  As  the  waters  fail  from  the  sea,  and 
the  flood  decayeth  and  drieth  up,  so  man  lieth  down,  and  riseth 
not ;  till  the  heavens  be  no  more,  they  shall  not  awake,  nor  be 
raised  out  of  their  sleep. 

4.  High  on  a  throne  of  royal  state,  which  far 
Outshone  the  wealth  of  Ormus  or  of  Ind, 

Or  where  the  gorgeous  east,  wifli  richest  hand, 
Showers  on  her  kings  barbaric  pearl  and  gold, 
Satan  exalted  sat ! 

6.      How  reverend  is  the  face  of  this  tall  pile, 

Whose  ancient  pillars  rear  their  marble  heads. 
To  bear  aloft  its  arch'd  and  ponderous  roof, 
By  its  own  weight  made  steadfast  and  ipimovable. 
Looking  tranquillity!     It  strikes  an  awe 
And  terror  on  my  aching  sight :  the  tombs 
And  monumental  caves  of  death  look  cold. 
And  shoot  a  chillness  to  my  trembling  heart. 

6.      Sky,  mountains,  r  ver,  winds,  lake,  lightnings !  ye, 
With  night,  and  CiOuds,  and  thunder,  and  a  soul 
To  make  these  felt  and  feeling,  well  may  be 
Things  that  have  made  me  watchful :  the  far  roll 
Of  your  departing  voices  is  the  knell 
Of  what  in  me  is  sleepless, — if  I  rest 


60  NATIONAL    FIFl'lI    RKAEEK. 

But  where,  of  ye,  0  tempests !  is  the  goal  ? 

Are  ye  like  those  within  the  human  breast? 

Or  do  ye  find,  at  length,  like  eagles,  some  high  nest! 
V.      0  thou  Eternal  One  ! "  whose  presence  bright 

All  space  doth  occupy,  ail  motion  guide; 

Unchanged  through  time's  all-devastating  flight; 

Thou  only  God !    There  is  no  God  beside ! 

Being  above  all  beings !    Mighty  One ! 

Whom  none  can  comprehend  and  none  explore ; 

Who  fill'st  existence  wifli  Thyself  alone,- 

Embracing  all, — supporting, — ruling  o'er  : 

Being  whom  we  call  God — and  know  no  more. 
8.  In  thoughts  from  the  visions  of  the  night,  when  deep  sleep 
falleth  on  men,  fear  came  upon  me,  and  trembling,  which  made 
all  my  bones  to  shake.  Then  a  spirit  passed  before  my  face ; 
the  hair  of  my  flesh  stood  up.  It  stood  still,  but  I  could  not 
discern  the  form  thereof:  an  image  was  before  mine  eyes :  there 
was  silence,  and  I  heard  a  voice  saying.  Shall  mortal  man  be 
more  just  than  God?  Shall  a  man  be  more  pure  than  his 
Maker  ? 


Section  VI. — Personation. 

-  iSRSONATioN  consists  of  tliosG  modulations  or  changes 
of  the  voice  necessary  to  represent  two  or  more  pei-sons 
as  speaking. 

This  principle  of  expression,  upon  the  correct  application  of 
which  much  of  the  beauty  and  efliciency  of  delivery  depends,  is 
employed  in  reading  dialogues  and  other  pieces  of  a  conversa- 
tional nature.  The  student  should  exercise  his  discrhnination 
and  ingenuity  in  studying  the  characters  of  persons  to  be  repre- 
sented,— fully  informing  himself  with  regard  to  their  tempera- 
ment, condition,  and  feelings, — and  so  modulate  his  voice  as  best 
to  personate  them. 

Exercise. 

He.  Dost  thou  love  wanderiig?     Whither  wouldst  thou  go? 
Dream'st  thoi^  sweet  daughter,  of  a  land  more  fair? 


PAUSES. 


61 


Dost  thou  not  love  these  aye-blue  streams  that  flow  ? 

These  spicy  iorests  ?  and  this  golden  air  ? 
She.  Oh,  yes,  I  love  the  woods,  and  streams,  so  gay ; 

And  more  than  all,  0  father,  I  love  thee  ;  . 
Yet  would  I  fain  be  wandering — far  away, 

Where  such  things  never  were,  nor  e'er  shall  bo. 
Re.   Speak,  mine  own  daughter  with  the  sun-bright  locks ! 

To  what  pale,  banish'd  region  wouldst  thou  roam  ? 
Site.  O  father,  let  us  find  our  frozen  rocks ! 

Let's  seek  that  country  of  all  countries — Home ! 
He.  Seest  thou  these  orange  flowers  ?  this  palm  that  rears 

Its  head  up  toward  heaven's  blue  and  cloudless  dome  ? 
She.  I  dream,  I  dream ;  mine  eyes  are  hid  in  tears ; 

My  heart  is  wandering  round  our  ancient  home. 
He.  Why,  then,  we'll  go.     Farewell,  ye  tender  skies, 

Who  shclter'd  us,  when  we  were  forced  to  roam ! 
She.  On,  on !    Let's  pass  the  swallow  as  he  flies  1 

Farewell,  kind  land !     Now,  father,  now — for  Home ! 


Section  VII. — Pauses. 

Pauses  are  suspensions  of  tlie  voice  in  reading  and 
speaking,  nsed  to  mark  expectation  and  uncertainty,  and 
to  give  effect  to  expression.  They  are  often  more  elo- 
quent than  words. 

Pauses  difl'er  greatly  in  their  frequency  and  their  length,  ac- 
cording to  the  nature  of  the  subject.  In  lively  conversation, 
and  rapid  argument,  they  are  comparatively  few  and  short.  In 
serious,  dignified,  and  pathetic  speaking,  they  are  far  more  nu- 
merous and  more  prolonged. 

The  pause  is  marked  thus  ^„  in  the  following  illustrations  and 
exercises. 

EULES   FOR   THE   UsE   OF   PaUSES. 

1.  A  pause  is  required  after  a  comjxnmd  nominative.^ 
in  all  cases ;  and  after  a  nominative  consisting  of  a  single 


*J2  NATIONAI.   FIFl'H    RKADEE. 

word,  wlien  it  is  either  errt^jjlmtic^  or  is  the  leading  siU» 
ject  of  discoiii-se  ;  as, 

Joy  and  sorrow  ^  move  liim  not.  No  people  ^  can  claim  him. 
No  country  *^  can  appropriate  him. 

2.  A  pause  is  required  after  wc  rds  which  ai-e  iu  ajyif 
sition  with^  or  opposition  to^  each  oilier  ;  as, 

Solomon  *<  the  son  of  David  ^  was  king  of  Israel.     False  <l« 
icacy  is  affectation  ^  not  politeness. 

3.  A  pause  is  required  after  hut^  hence^  and  other 
words  denoting  a  marked  transition,  when  hey  stand  at 
the  beginning  of  a  sentence  ;  as^ 

But  ^  it  was  reserved  for  Arnold  w]  to  blend  all  these  bad 
qualities  into  one.  Hence  *i  Solomon  calls  the  fear  of  the 
Lord  ^,  the  beginning  of  wisdom. 

4.  A  pause  is  required  before  that^  when  a  conjunc- 
tion or  relative,  and  the  relatives  wJio^  which^  what; 
together  with  when^  lohence^  and  other  adverbs  of  time 
and  place,  which  involve  the  idea  of  a  relative ;  as, 

He  went  to  school  *^  that  he  might  become  wise.  This  is  the 
man  *i  that  loves  me.  We  were  present  ^  when  La  Fayette 
embarked  at  Havre  for  New  York. 

5.  A  pause  is  required  before  the  infinitive  mood^ 
when  governed  by  another  verb,  or  when  separated  by 
an  intervening  clause  from  the  word  which  governs 
it;  as. 

He  has  gone  H  to  convey  the  news.  He  smote  me  with  a 
rod  ^  to  please  my  enemy. 

6.  In  cases  of  elli2)sis^  a  pause  is  required  where  one 
or  more  words  are  omitted  ;  as. 

So  goes  the  world;  if  w]  wealthy,  you  may  call  this  ^  friemi. 
that  **i  brother. — A  poor  fellow  ^  witty  and  wise,  entered  the 
room.  He  walked  on  this  side  **i  and  then  on  that  **)  he  tried 
to  introduce  a  social  chat;  but  some  *i  formally  and  freezinglv 
replied  m  and  some  ^  said  bj  tl  t'ir  silence,  ^  better  stay  at  hoiua 


SUSPENSIVE    QUANTITT.  69 

7.  Pauses  are  used  to  set  off  'iicalifyiruj  claii'Scs  by 
themselves;  to  separate  qualifying  terms  from  each 
other,  when  a  number  of  them  refer  to  tlie  same  woi'd ; 
and  wlien  an  adjective  follows  its  noun  ;  as, 

The  rivulet  sends  forth  glad  sounds,  and  *<  trippiiKj  (hr  it-s 
bed  of  pebhlij  sanch^  or  leaping  down  the  rocks  ^  seems  ^  will 
continuous  laur/hter  ^  to  rejoice  in  its  own  beirg.  He  had  m 
mind  *<  deep  ^  active  ^  well  stored  with  knowledge. 

These  rules,  though  important,  if  properly  applied,  are  by  no 
meins  complete ;  nor  can  any  be  invented  which  shall  meet  all 
the  cases  that  arise  in  the  compHcated  relations  of  thought.  A 
good  reader  or  speaker  pauses,  on  an  average,  at  every  fifth  or 
sixth  word,  and  in  many  cases  much  more  frequently.  His  only 
guide,  in  many  instances,  is  a  discriminating  taste  in  grouping 
ideas,  and  separating  by  pauses  those  which  are  less  intimately 
allied.     In  doing  this,  he  will  often  use  what  may  be  called 

Suspensive  Quantity. 

Suspp:nsive  Quantity  means  prolonging  the  end  of  a 
word,  without  actuallv  pausing  after  it ;  and  tlius  sus- 
pending, without  wholly  interrupting  the  progress  of 
sound. 

The  prolongation  on  the  last  syllable  of  a  word,  or  Suspensive 
Quantity,  is  indicated  thus  ,  in  the  following  examples.  It  is 
used  chiefly  for  three  purposes : 

1st.  To  prevent  too  frequent  a  recurrence  of  pauses;  as, 
Her  lover  sinks — she  sheds  no  ill-timed  tear  ; 

Her  chief  ~is  slain — she  fills  his  fatal  post ; 
Her  fellows~flee — she  checks  their  base  career ; 

The  foe   retires — she  heads  the  rallying  host. 

2d.  To  produce  a  slighter  disjunction  than  would  be 
made  by  a  pause;  and  thus  at  once  to  separate  and 
unite;  as, 

Would  you  kill~your  friend  and  benefactor  ?  Would  you 
practice  hypocrisy  and  smile  in  his  face,  while  your  conspiracy 
ifi  ripening  ? 


64.  NATIONAL    FTFrU    READER. 

3d.  To  break  up  the  ciirrent  of  sound  into  small  por- 
tions, which  can  be  easily  managed  by  the  speaker, 
without  the  abruptness  which  would  result  from  pausing 
wherever  this  relief  was  needed ;  and  to  give  ease  in 
speaking;  as, 

1        Warins~in  the  sun,  refreshes~in  the  breeze, 
Glows'"!!!  the  stars,  and  bIossoms~~in  the  trees ; 
Lives~through  all  life,  extends~throiigh  all  extent, 
Spreads^un divided,  operates~unspent. 
2.  That  larae~man,  by  the  field~tent,  is  untainted~with  the 
crime  of  blood,  and  free~from  any  stain  of  treason. 

General  Rule. 

.  Whenever  a  preposition  is  follorwed  by  as  many  as 
three  or  four  wx)rds  which  depend  upon  it,  the  w^ord 
preceding  the  preposition  will  either  have  suspensive 
quantity,  or  else  a  pause ;  as, 

He  is  the  pride~of  the  whole  country. 

Keqnire  students  to  tell  which  of  the  preceding  rules  or  principles  is 
illustrated,  wherever  a  mark,  representing  the  pause  or  suspensive 
quantity,  is  introduced  in  the  following 

Exercise. 

1.  It  matters  very  little  w^  what  immediate~spot  ^  may  have 
been  the  birth-place^of  snch  a  man  as  Waohington.  iVa  people 
^  can  claim  ^^i  no  country  ^  can  appropriate  him.  The 
boon~of  Providence  to  the  human  race  ^  his  fame  ^  is  eter- 
nity ^^  and  his  dwelling-place  *i  creation. 

2.  Though  it  was  the  defeat  ^  of  our  avms  ^  and  the  dis- 
grace ^  of  our  policy  ^^  I  almost  bless" the  convulsion  w  in 
uhich  he  had  his  origin.  If  the  heavens  thundered  ^  and  the 
earth~rocked  ^  ^  yet,  ^  wlien  the  storm  passed,  ^  how  pure~wa8 
the  climate  **i  that  it  cleared  w|^  how  bright  ^  in  the  brow  of 
the  firmament  *^  was  the  planet  ^  which  it  revealed  to  us ! 

3.  In  the  production  of  Washingtor  ^  it  does  really  appear  ^ 


PAUSES.  65 

as  if  nature  *<  was  endeavoring  to  improve~upon  herself  w  ^  and 
that  all  the  virtiies~of  the  ancient  world  ^  were  but  so  many 
studies  *^  prepaiatory~to  the  patriot  of  the  new.  IndividuaPin- 
stances  ^  no  doubt  there  were  ^  splendid  exemplifications  m.  of 
some  single  qualification.  Caesar '^  w^as  merciful  **i  ^  Scipio  ^ 
«v^as  continent  ^*»i  Hannibal  **i  was  patient.  But  ^  it  was  re- 
served for  Washington  ^  to  blend~them  all  in  one  ^^i'^  and  like 
the  lovely  master-piece~of  the  Grecian  artist  ^i^  to  exhibit  ^  in 
one  glow~of  associated  beauty  w]  the  pride~of  every  model  *» 
and  the  perfection~"of  every  master. 

4.  As  a  general  ^^  he  marshaled  the  peasant  ^  into  a  vet- 
eran ^  ^  and  supplied  by  discipline  ^  the  absence  of  experience. 
As  a  statesman  ^  ^  he  enlarged  the  policy~of  the  cabinet  -^  into 
the  most  comprehensive  system~of  general  advantage.  And 
such  w]  was  the  wisdom^of  his  views  ^  and  the  philosophy~of 
his  counsels  ^w]  that  to  the  soldier  **i  and  the  statesmen  ^  he 
almost  added  ^  the  character  of  the  sage. 

5.  A  conqueror  wi  he  w^^s  untainted  wifli  the  crime  of  blood 
t^^  a  revolutionist  ^  he  w^is  free^from  any  stain  of  treason  w 
for  aggression~coranienced  the  contest  ^  and  his  country~called 
him  to  the  field.  Liberty  »^y  unsheafhed  his  sword  **]  *i  neces- 
sity "^  stained  ^  ^  victory  ^  returned  it. 

6.  If  he  had  paused  here  ^  history  might  have  doubted  ^ 
what  station^to  assign  him  ^  w]  whether  at  the  head  of  her  citi- 
zens ^  or  her  soldiers  ^^  her  heroes  *n  or  her  patriots.  But 
the  last  glorious  act  *»i  crowns  his  career  ^  and  banish es~a!l 
hesitation.  Who  ^  like  Washington  ^  after  having  emanci- 
pated~~a  hemisphere  ^  resigned  its  crown  '^ir,  and  prefer)  ed 
the  retirement  of  domestic  life  ^  to  the  adoration  of  a  land  <^ 
he  might  almost  be  said  to  have  created? 

7.  IIow~~shall  Ave  rank  thee  *^  upon  glory's~page, 
Thou  ??zore~than  soldier  ^  and  just  less  than  sage! 
All  thou  /Ao.s/~becn  *^  reflects  less   praise  ^  on  thee, 

Far~less  ^,  than  all  thou  hast  forborile   to  be. 
5 


06  NATIONAL   FIFTH    READER. 


OBSERVATION  TO  TEACHERS. 

In  order  to  form  finished  readers,  it  will  be  necessary,  aftei 
students  have  thoi'onghly  mastered  Part  First,  for  them  fre- 
quently to  review  the  more  important  elements  of  elocution. 
In  Part  Second,  they  should  be  required  to  study  each  reading 
lesson,  and  learn  the  definitions  and  pronunciation  of  the  words 
given  at  the  bottom  of  the  pages,  and  the  important  facts  em 
braced  in  the  biographical  sketches,  before  attempting  to  read. 
The  judgment  and  taste  of  students  should  coastantly  be  called 
into  exercise,  by  requiring  them  to  determine  what  principle,  or 
principles,  of  elocution,  each  reading  lesson  is  best  adapted  to 
illustrate. 


KEY 

TO   THE    SOUNDS    OF   MARKED   LEITEBS. 

&ge  or  age,  at  or  at,  ^rt,  dll,  bare,  ask ;  we  or  we.  ^nd  or 
end,  her ;  ice  or  ice,  in  or  in  ;  old  or  old,  on  or  on,  do  ; 
ntiiite  or  uiiite,  up  oi  up,  lull;  fliis ;  azure;  real;  aged. 


THE 

NATIONAL  FIFTH  HEADER. 


PART  II. 

EXEECISES   IIS^   KEADING. 

1.  The  Months. 

JANUARY!  Darkness  and  light  reign  alike.  Snow  is  on 
the  ground.  Cold  is  in  the  air.'  The  winter  is  hlossoniing 
m  frost-flowers.  Why  is  the  ground  hidden  ?  Why  is  the  earth' 
white  ?  So  hath  God  wiped  out  the  past  ;^  so  hath  he  spread 
the  earth  like  an  unwritten  page,  for  a  new  year !  Old  sounds 
are  silent  in  the  forest  and  in  the  air.  Insects  are  dead,  birds'* 
are  gone,  leaves  have  perished,  and  all  the  foundations  of  soil 
remain.  Upon  this  lies,  white  and  tranquil,  the  emblem  of 
newness  and  purity,  the  virgin*  robes  of  the  yet  unstained  year ! 
2.  February  !  The  day  gains  upon  the  night.  The  strife  of 
heat  and  cold  is  scarce^  begun.  The  winds  that  come  from  the 
desolate  north  wander  through  forests  of  frost-cracking  boughs, 
and  shout  in  the  air  the  weird^  cries  of  the  northern  bergs^  and 
ice-resounding  oceans.  Yet,  as  the  month  wears  on,  the  silent 
work  begins,  though  storms  rage.  The  earth  is  hidden  yet,  but 
not  dead.  The  snn  is  drawing  near.  The  storms  cry  out.  But 
the  sun  is  not  heard  in  all  the  heavens.  Yet  he  whispers  words 
of  deliverance  into  the  ears  of  every  sleeping  seed  and  root^  that 
lies  beneafh  the  snow.  The  day  opens,  but  the  night  shuts  the 
earth  with  its  frost-lock.     They  strive  together,  but  the  Dark- 

'  Air  (hr).—*  Earth  (^rth).— »  P^st.— «  Birds  (blrdz).— »  Virgin  (vSr'jin). 
— •  Sci\rce. — '  W^nd,  like  witches  ;  skilled  in  witchcraft. — ®  B^rgs,  hills  ; 
an  iceberg  is  a  hill  or  mountain  of  ice,  or  a  vast  body  cf  ice  floating  on 
the  ocean. — '  R(^,ol. 


6S  NATIONAL    FlPTll    ItEADKK. 

ness  and  the  Cold  are  growing  weaker.     On  some  nights  thoy 
forget,  to  work. 

3.  March  !  The  conflict  is  more  turbnlem,'  but  the  victory 
is  gained.  The  world  awakes.  There  come  voices  from  long- 
hidden  birds.  The  smell  of  the  soil  is  in  the  air.  The  sullen 
ice  retreating  from  open  field,  and  all  sunny  places,  has  slunk 
to  the  north  of  everj  fence  and  rock.  The  knolls  and  baiib 
that  tace  the  east  or  scuth  sigh  for  release,  and  begin  to  lift  uj 
a  thousand  tiny  palms. 

4.  April  !  The  singing  month.  Many  voices  of  many  birds 
call  for  resurrection  over  the  graves  of  flowers,  and  they  come 
forth.  Go,  see  what  they  have  lost.  What  have  ice,  and  snow, 
and  storm,  done  unto  them?  How  did  they  fall  into  the  earth, 
stripped  and  bare  f  How  do  they  come  forth  opening  and  glo- 
rified ?  Is  it,  then,  so  fearful  a  thing  to  lie  in  the  grave  ?  In  its 
wild  career,  shaking  and  scourged  of  storms  through  its  orbit, 
the  earth  has  scattered  away  no  treasures.  The  Hand  that 
governs  in  April  governed  in  January.  You  have  not  lost  what 
God  has  only  hidden.  You  lose  nothing  in  struggle,  in  trial,  in 
bitter  distress.  If  called  to  shed  thy  joys  as  trees  their  leaves ; 
if  the  affections  be  driven  back  into  the  heart,  as  the  life  of 
flowers  to  their  roots,  yet  be  patient.  Thou  shnlt  lift  up  thy 
leaf-covered  boughs  again.  Thou  shalt  shoot  forth  from  thy 
roots  new  flowers.  Be  patient.  Wait.  When  it  is  February, 
April  is  not  far  off.     Secretly  the  plants  love  each  other. 

5.  May  !  0  Flower-Month,  perfect'  the  harvests  of  flowers ! 
Be  not  niggardly.  Search^  out  the  cold  and  resentful  nooks"  that 
refused  the  sun,  casting*  back  its  rays  from  disdainful  ice,  and 
plant  flowers  even  there.  There  is  goodness  in  the  worst.' 
There  is  w^armth  in  the  coldness.  The  silent,  hopeful,  unbreath- 
ing  sun,  that  will  not  fret  or  despond,  but  carries  a  placid  brow 
through  the  unwrinkled  heavens,  at  length  conquers  the  veiy 
rocks,  and  lichens  grow  and  inconspicuously  blossom.  What 
shall  not  Time  do,  that  carries  in  its  bosom  Love  ? 

6.  June  !  Eest !  This  is  the  year's  bower.  Sit  down  within 
it.     Wipe  from  thy  brow  the  toil.     The  elements  are  thy  scr- 

^  Turbulent  (t5r'  bu  lent),  raising  ugitation  ;  viok  \t.~  ^  Vnivc^-'  SSaicb 
-*N6ok.-  -» CUst' lug.— "  Worst  (w^r.st). 


THE   MONTHS.  0^ 

vants.  The  dews  bring  thee  jewels.  The  winds  bring  per'fiime. 
The  earth  shows  thee  all  her  treasure.  The  forests  sing  to  thee. 
The  air  is  all  sweetness,  as  if  all  the  angels  of  God  had  gone 
through  it,  bearing  spices  homeward.  The  storms  are  but  as 
flocks  of  mighty  birds  that  spread  their  wings  and  sing  in  the 
high  heaven !  Speak  to  God,  now,  and  say,  "  0  Father,  where 
art  thou  ?"  And  out  of  every  flower,  and  tree,  and  silver  pool, 
and  twined  thicket,  a  voice  will  come,  "God  is  in  me."  The 
earth  cries  to  the  heavens,  "  God  is  here."  And  the  heavens  cry 
to  the  earth,  "  God  is  here."  The  sea  claims  Him.  The  land 
hath  Him.  His  footsteps  are  upon  the  deep !  He  sitteth  upon 
the  Circle  of  the  Earth  !  O  sunny  joys  of  the  sunny  month,  yet 
soft  and  temperate,  how  soon  will  the  eager  months  that  come 
burning  from  the  equator,  scorch  you ! 

7.  July  !  Rouse  up !  The  temperate  heats  that  filled  the 
air  are  raging  forward  to  glow  and  overfill  the  earth  with  hot- 
ness.  Must  it  be  thus  in  every  thing,  that  June  shall  rush  to- 
ward August  ?  Or,  is  it  not  that  there  are  deep  and  unreached 
places  for  whose  sake  the  probing'  sun  pierces  down  its  glowing 
hands?  There  is  a  deeper  work  than  June  can  perform.  The 
earth  shall  drink  of  the  heat  before  she  knows  her  nature  or  her 
strength.  Then  shall  she  brinjr  forth  to  the  uttermost  the  treas- 
ures  of  her  bosom.  For,  there  are  things  hidden  far  down,  and 
the  deep  things  of  life  are  not  known  till  the  fire  reveals  them. 

8.  August  !  Reign,  thou  Fire-Month !  What  canst  thou  do? 
Neither  shalt  thou  destroy  the  earth,  whom  frosts  and'  ice  could 
not  destroy.  The  vines  droop,  the  trees  stagger,  the  broad- 
palmed  leaves  give  thee  their  moisture,  and  hang  down.  But 
every  night  the  dew  pities  them.  Y&t,  there  are  flowers  that 
look  thee  in  the  eye,  fierce  Sun,  all  day  long,  and  wink  not. 
This  is  the  rejoicing  month  for  joyful  insects.  If  our  unselfish 
eye  would  behold  it,  it  is  the  most  populous  and  the  happiest 
month.  The  herds  plash  in  the  sedge;  fish  seek  the  deeper 
pools ;  forest  fowl  lead  out  their  young ;  the  air  is  resonant^  of 
insect  orchestras,^  each  one  cai-rying  his  part  in  Nature's  grand 

^  Pr6b'  ing,  scrutinizing  ;  searchini^  to  the  bottom. —  Resonant  (rSz'- 
on&nt),  resounding;  retuiniug  sound  — 'Orchestra  (Sr'kestra),  a  baud 
of  musicians  ;  a  place  prepared  for  the  performers  in  a  concert. 


70  NATIONAL    KJlTll-  KICADER. 

harmony.    August,  thou  art  the  ripeness  of  the  year !     Thou  art 
the  glowing  center  of  tlie  circle! 

9.  September!  There  are  thoughts  in  thy  heart  of  death. 
Thou  art  doing  a  secret  work,  and  heaping  up  treasures  for  an- 
other year.  The  unborn  infant-buds  which  thou  art  tending 
ai'c  more  than  all  the  living  leaves.  Thy  robes  are  luxuriant,  but 
worn  wifh  softened  pride.  More  dear,  less  beautiful  than  June, 
thou  art  the  heart's  month.  Not  till  the  heats  of  summer  are 
gone,  while  all  its  growths  remain,  do  we  know  the  fullness  of 
life.  Thy  hands  are  stretched  out,  and  clasp'  the  glowing  palm 
of  August,  and  the  fruit-smelling  hand  of  October.  Thou  di- 
videst  them  asunder,  and  art  thyself  molded  of  them  both. 

10.  October!  Orchard  of  the  year!  Bend  thy  boughs  to 
the  earth,  redolent^  of  glowing  fruit !  Ripened  seeds  shake  in 
their  pods.  Apples  drop  in  the  stillest  hours.  Leaves  begin  to 
let  go  when  no  wind  is  out,  and  swing  in  long  waverings  to  the 
earth,  which  they  touch  without  sound,  and  lie  looking  up,  till 
winds  rake  them,  and  heap  them  in  fence  corners.  When  the 
gales  come  through  the  trees,  the  yellow  leaves  trail,  like  sparks 
at  n^ht  behind  the  flying  engine.  The  woods  are  thinner,  so 
that  we  can  see  the  heavens  plainer,  as  we  he  dreaming  on  the 
yet  warm  moss  by  the  singing  spring.  The  days  are  calm.  The 
nights  are  tranquil.  The  year's  work  is  done.  She  walks  in 
gorgeous  apparel,  looking  upon  her  long  labor,  and  her  serene 
eye  saith,  "  It  is  good." 

11.  November!  Patient  watcher,  thou  ail  asking'  to  lay 
down  thy  tasks."*  Life,  to  thee,  now,  is  only  a  task  accomplished. 
In  the  night-time  thou  liest  down,  and  the  messengers  of  winter 
deck  thee  with  hoar-frosts  for  thy  burial.  The  morning  look? 
upon  thy  jewels,  and  they  perish  while  it  gazes.  Wilt  thou  not 
come,  0  December? 

12.  December!  Silently  the  month  advances.'  There  is 
notiiing^  to  destroy,  but  much  to  bury.  Bury,  then,  tliou  snow, 
that  slumberously  fallest  through  the  still  air,  the  hedge-rows  of 
leaves !  Muflae  thy  cold  wool  about  the  feet  of  shivering  trees ! 
Bury  all  that  the  year  hath  known,  and  let  thy  brilliant  stars, 

•  Cllsp. — '  Kid'  o  lent,  having  or  diffusing  tv  rich  scent  ov  odor. — *  Ask 
lug  (&sk'ing).— *T&sks.— '  Ad  viWes.— -•  NotliiJi^,  .'nuth'ing) 


HYMN   TO   THE    SEAS0X8.  71 

that  never  sliine  as  they  do  in  thy  frostiest  nights,  behold  the 
work  !  But  know,  0  month  of  destruction,  that  in  thy  constel- 
lation' is  set  that  Star,  whose  rising  is  the  sig-n,  for  evermore, 
that  there  is  life  in  death  !  Thou  art  the  month  of  resurrection. 
In  thee,  the  Christ  came.  Every  star,  that  looks  down  upon  thy 
labor  and  toil  of  burial,  knows  that  all  things  shall  come  forth 
again.'^  Storms  shall  sob  themselves  to  sleep.  Silence  shall  find 
a  voice.  Death  shall  live,  Life  shall  rejoice,  Winter  shall  break 
forth  and  blossom  into  Spring,  Spring  shall  put  on  her  glorious 
apparel  and  be  called  Summer.  It  is  life !  it  is  life !  through 
the  whole  year !  H.  W.  Beecher. 

Rev.  Henky  Ward  Beecher,  son  of  Dr.  Lyman  Beecher,  was  bom  in  Litch- 
field, Connecticut,  June  'i4th,  1813.  He  was  graduated  at  Amherst  College  in 
1834.  He  studied  theology  at  Lane  Seminary,  Cincinnati,  which  was  mider  the 
direction  of  his  father;  and  was  first  settled  as  a  Presbyterian  minister  at  Law- 
renceburg,  Dearborn  county,  Indiana,  where  he  remained  two  years.  From 
thence  he  removed  to  Indianapolis,  the  capital  of  the  State,  where  he  labored 
witli  great  acceptation  till  he  accepted  the  unanimous  call  of  a  new  Congrega- 
tional Society,  in  Brooklyn,  New  York,  He  was  installed  pastor  of  the  church, 
October,  1847.  His  eloquent  sermons,  which  are  never  common-place,  attract 
very  tai'ge  and  attentive  audiences.  He  is  equally  favored  as  a  lecturer  on  topics 
of  the  day,  usually  lecturing  about  eighty  times  a  year,  in  various  parts  of  the 
country.  Mr.  Beecher  generally  avoids  doctrinal  topics.  He  preaches  the  truth 
of  to-day  applied  to  the  teinptations,  the  errors,  and  the  wants  of  to-day.  His 
sympathy  with  nature,  acute  observation  of  men  and  things,  remarkable  analy- 
sis of  character,  apt  illustration,  mental  elasticity,  soul-strength,  and  affluence 
and  power  of  diction,  are  equally  apparent  in  his  writings  and  iiis  extemporane- 
ous speeches. 


2.  Hyisen  to  the  Seasons. 

1.  rnilESE,  as  they  change.  Almighty  Father!  these 
-1-   Are  but  the  varied  God.     The  rolling  year 

Is  full  of  Thee.     Forth  in  the  pleasing  Spring 
Thy  beauty  walks,  Thj-  tenderness,  and  love. 
Wide  flush  the  fields ;  the  softening  air  is  balm ; 
Echo  the  mountains  round ;  the  forest  smiles ; 
And  every  sense  and  every  heart  is  joy. 

2.  Then  comes  Thy  glory  in  the  Summer  months, 
With  light  and  heat  refulgent."     Then  Thy  sun 

'  Con  stel  li'  tion,  a  cluster  of  fixed  stars.  -'  Again  (a  g&n'). — '  Re  fM' 
gent,  casting  a  very  bright  light ;  splendid 


72  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Shoots  full  perfection  through  tlie  swelling  year ; 
And  6ft  Thy  voice  in  dreadful  thunder  speaks, 
And  oft  at  dawn,  deep  noon,  or  falling  eve, 
By  brooks  and  groves,  in  hollow-whispering  gales. 
Thy  bounty  shines  in  Autumn  unconfined, 
And  spreads  a  common  feast  for  all  that  live. 
In  Winter  awful  Thou,  with  clouds  and  storms 
Around  Thee  thrown,  tempest  o'er  tempest  roU'd, 
Majestic  darkness !     On  the  whirlwind's  wing, 
Riding  sublime,  Thou  bidst  the  world  adore, 
And  humblest  Nature  with  Thy  northern  blast. 

3.  Mysterious  round !  what  skill,  what  force  divine, 
Deep  felt,  in  these  appear !  a  simple  train, 

Yet  so  delightful  mix'd,  wifti  such  kind  art. 
Such  beauty  and  beneficence^  combined ; 
Shade,  unperceived,  so  softening  into  shade ; 
And  all  so  forming  a  harmonious  whole, 
That,  as  they  still  succeed,  they  ravish^  still. 
But  wandering  oft,  with  brute^  unconscious  gaze, 
Man  marks  not  Thee ;  marks  not  the  mighty  Hand, 
That,  ever  busy,  wheels  the  silent  sphere; 
Works  in  the  secret  deep ;  shoots,  steaming,  thence 
The  fair  profusion  that  o'erspreads  the  Spring ; 
Flings  from  the  sun  direct  the  flaming  day ; 
Feeds  every  creature ;  hurls  the  tempest  forth ; 
And,  as  on  earth  this  grateful  change  revolves. 
With  transport  touches  all  the  springs  of  life. 

4.  Nature,  attend !  join,  every  living  soul, 
Beneath  the  spacious  temple  of  the  sky, 
In  adoration  join  ;  and,  ardent,  raise 

One  general  song !     To  Him,  ye  vocal  gales. 
Breathe  soft,  whose  spirit  in  your  freshness  breathes : 
Oh,  talk  of  Him  in  solitary  glooms ! 
Where,  o'er  the  rock,  the  scarcely  waving  pine 

*  Be  nSf  i  cence,  the  practice  of  doing  good;  active  goodness,  kind- 
ness,  or  charity. — '  RJv'  ish,    enrapture  ;     transport  with    delight.  -• 
Brute  (hrSt). 


HYMN    TO   THK   SEASONS.  78 

Fills  the  brown  shade  wifti  a  religious  awe. 

And  ye,  whose  bolder  note  is  heard  afar, 

Who  shake  the  astonish'd  world,  lift  high  to  heaven 

The  impetuous  soig,  and  say  from  whom  you  rage, 

5.  Ills  praise,  ye  brooks,  attune,  ye  trembling  rills ; 
And  let  me  catch  it  as  I  muse  along.. 

Ye  headlong  torrents,  rapid  and  profound ; 

Ye  softer  floods,  that  lead  the  humid  maze 

Along  the  vale ;  and  thou,  majestic  main, 

A  secret  world  of  wonders  in  thyself 

Sound  His  stupendous'  praise,  whose  greater  voice 

Or  bids  you  roar,  or  bids  your  roarings  fall. 

Soft  roll  your  incense,  Aerbs,  and  fruits,  and  flowers, 

In  mingled  clouds  to  Ilim,  whose  sun  exalts, 

Whose  breath  perfumes  you,  and  whose  pencil  paints, 

6.  Ye  forests,  bend ;  ye  harvests,  wave  to  Him ; 
Breathe  your  still  song  into  the  reaper's  heart, 
As  home  he  goes  beneath  the  joyous  moon. 
Ye  that  keep  watch  in  heaven,  as  earth  asleep 
Unconscious  lies,  eff"use'  your  mildest  beams ; 
Ye  constellations,  while  your  angels  strike, 
Amid  the  spangled  sky,  the  silver  lyre. 
Great  source  of  day  !  best  image  here  below 
Of  thy  Creator,  ever  pouring  wide, 

From  world  to  world,  the  vital  ocean  round. 
On  Nature  write  with  every  beam  His  praise. 

7.  The  thunder  rolls :  be  hush'd  the  prostrate  world, 
Wliile  cloud  to  cloud  returns  the  solemn  hymn. 
Bleat  out  afresh,  ye  hills ;  ye  mossy  rocks, 
Retain  the  sound :  the  broad  Pesponsive  low, 

Ye  valleys,  raise ;  for  the  Great  Shepherd  reigns. 
And  His  unsuffering  kingdom  ygt  will  come. 
Ye  woodlands  all,  awake :  a  boundless  song 
Burst  from  the  groves !  and  when  the  restless  day, 

*  Stu  pSn'  dous,  literally,  striking  dumb  by  its  greatness  of  size  or  im- 
portauce ;  hence,  astonishing;  wonderful. — 'Effuse  (effiis'),  to  spill; 
to  pour  out. 

4 


74  NA.TIONAL    VlVrii    RKMW.K. 

Expiring,  lays  the  warbling  world  asleep, 

Sweetest  of  birds !  sweet  Philomela,'  charm 

The  listening  shades,  and  teach  the  night  His  praise. 

8.  Ye  chief,  for  whom  the  whole  creation  smiles. 
At  once  the  head,  the  heart,  and  tongue  of  all. 
Crown  the  great  hymn !  in  swarming  cities  vast, 
Assembled  men,  to  the  deep  organ  join 

The  long-resounding  voice,  6ft  breaking  clear, 
At  solemn  pauses,  through  the  swelling  bass ; 
And,  as  each  mingling  flame  increases  each, 
In  one  united  ardor  rise  to  heaven. 
Or,  if  }'ou  rather  choose  the  ruraP  shade, 
And  find  a  fane  in  every  sacred  grove, 
There  let  the  shepherd's  flute,  the  virgin's  lay, 
The  pro'npting  seraph',  and  the  poet's  lyre, 
Still  sing  the  God  of  Seasons  as  they  roll. 

9.  For  me,  when  I  forgot  the  darling  theme, 
"Whether  the  blossom  blows,  the  summer  ray 
Russets  the  plain,  inspiiing  Autumn  gleams. 
Or  Winter  rises  in  the  blackening  east, 

Be  my  tongue  mute,  my  fancy  paint  no  more, 
And,  dead  to  joy,  forget  my  heart  to  beat ! — 
Should  fate  command^  me  to  the  furthest  verge 
Of  the  green  earth,  to  distant  barbarous  climes. 
Rivers  unknown  to  song, — where  first  the  sun 
Gilds  Indian  mountains,  or  his  setting  beam 
Flames  on  the  Atlantic  isles, — 'tis  naught  to  me ; 
Since  God  is  ever  present,  ever  felt, 
In  the  void  waste  as  in  the  city  full ; 
And  where  He  vital  breathes,  there  must  be  joy, 

10.  When  even  at  last*  the  solemn  hour  snail  come, 
And  wing  my  mystic®  flight  to  future  worlds, 

*Pliilom6  la,  from  FhUomehi,  daughter  of  Pandion,  king  of  Athens, 
who  was  supposed  to  have  been  changed  into  a  nightingale  ;  hence,  the 
nightingale. — '  Rural  (r6'  ral).-  -'  SSr'  aph,  an  angel  of  the  liighest  order. 
— ^*  Com  mind'. — 'List. — 'MyK'tic,  obscure;  involving  some  hiddeu 
meaning. 


ON    READING.  75 

I  cheerful  will  obey ;  there,  with  new  powers, 

Will  rising  wondeis  sing.     I  can  not  go 

Where  Universal  Love  not  smiles  around, 

Sustaining  all  yon  orbs,  and  all  their  suns ; 

From  seeming  evil  still  educing  good, 

And  better  thence  again,  and  better  still, 

In  infinite  progression.     But  I  lose 

Myself  in  Him,  in  Light  meffable  1' 

Come  then,  expressive  Silence,  muse  His  praise. 

James  Tiiojisgn. 

James  Thomson  was  bom  at  Ednam,  near  Kelso,  Roxburgh  county,  England, 
September  lltli,  1700,  and  died  August  27ih,  1748.  He  was  the  author  of  the 
*'  Seeisons,"  a  work  which  alone  would  have  perpetuated  his  name.  Though 
born  a  poet,  he  seems  to  have  advanced  but  slowly,  and  by  reiterated  efforts,  to 
refinement  of  taste.  The  first  edition  of  the  "  J^■easons"  differs  materially  from 
the  second,  and  the  second  still  more  from  the  third.  Every  alteration  was  an 
improvement  in  delicacy  of  thought  and  language.  That  the  genius  of  Thom- 
son was  purifying  and  working  off  its  alloys  up  to  the  termination  of  his  exist- 
ence, may  be  seen  from  the  superiority  in  style  and  diction  of  his  last  poem,  the 
"  Castle  of  Indolence,"  to  which  he  brought  not  only  the  full  nature,  but  the 
perfect  art  of  a  poet.  As  a  dramatic  writer  he  was  unsuccessful.  He  was  in 
poverty  in  early  life,  but  through  the  influence  of  Lord  Lyttleton,  lie  obtaiueil  a 
pension  of  £100  a  year,  from  the  Prince  of  Wales,  and  an  office  which  brought 
him  £300  per  annum.  He  was  now  in  comparative  opulence,  and  his  residence 
at  Kew-lane,  near  Richmond,  was  tlie  scene  of  social  enjoyment  and  lettered 
sase.  He  was  friendly,  shy,  and  indolent.  His  noted  lines  in  favor  of  early 
rising,  commencing— 

Falsely  luxurious,  will  not  man  awake, 
And  springing  from  the  bed  of  sloth,  &c., 
were  written  in  bed. 


3.    On  Reading. 

T)  EA.DIXG  is  the  nourishment  of  the  mind ;  for,  by  reading, 
JLt  we  know  our  Creator,  his  works,  ourselves  chiefly,  and  our 
fellow-creatures.  But  this  nourishment  is  easily  converted  into 
poison.     Salmasius*  had  read   as   much  as  Grotius,'-^perhap8 

'  In  fef  fa  ble,  untold  ;  unspeakable  ;  that  can  not  be  expressed  in 
words. — '  Salmasius,  an  eminent  Frencli  scholar.  When  only  ten  years 
of  age  he  composed  Latin  and  Greek  verses.  He  was  born  in  1588, 
and  died  in  1653. — '  GROTrrs,  Hugh  de  Groot,  or  Hugo  Grotius,  an  emi- 
nent scholar,  born  at  Delft,  in  Holland,  1583,  and  died  in  1645.  He 
adopted  the  profession  of  law,  but  is  better  known  as  the  author  of  aii 
often  quoted  work,  "On  the  Truth  of  the  Christian  Religion." 


76  NATIONAL    FIFl'H    READER. 

more ;  but  their  different  modes  of  reading  made  the  one  an 
enlightened  philosopher,  and  the  other,  to  speak  plainly,  a 
pedant,'  puffed  up  with  a  useless  erudition.' 

2.  Let  us  read  wifli  method,  and  propose  to  ourselves  an  end 
to  which  all  our  studies  may  point.  Through  neglect  of  this 
rule,'  gross  ignorance  often  disgraces  great  readers,  who,  by  skip- 
ping hastily  and  irregularly  from  one  subject  to  another,  render 
themselves  incapable  of  combining  their  ideas.  So  many  de- 
tached parcels  of  knowledge  can  not  form  a  whole. 

3.  But  what  ought  we  to  read  ?  Each  individual  must  answer 
this  question  for  himself,  agreeably  to  the  object  of  his  studies. 
The  only  general  precept  that  I  would  venture  to  give  is  that  of 
Pliny,"  "to  read  much,  rather  than  many  things;"  to  make  a 
careful  selection  of  the  best  works,  and  to  render  them  familiar 
to  us  by  attentive  and  repeated  perusals. 

4.  Without  expatiating  on  the  authors  so  generally  known 
and  approved,  I  would  simply  observe,  that  in  matters  of  reason- 
ing, the  best  are  those  who  have  augmented  the  number  of  use- 
ful truths;  who  have  discovered  truths,  of  whatever  nature  they 
may  be ;  in  one  word,  those  bold  spirits,  who,  quitting  the  beaten 
track,  prefer  being  in  the  wrong  alone,  to  being  in  the  right  wifti 
the  multitude. 

5.  Such  authors  increase  the  number  of  our  ideas,  and  even 
their  mistakes  are  useful  to  their  successors.  With  all  the  re- 
spect due  to  Mr.  Locke,*  I  would  not,  however,  neglect  the  works 
of  those  academicians^  who  destroy  errors  without  hoping  to  sub- 
stitute truth  in  their  stead. 


•  Pfed'  ant,  one  who  makes  a  vain  display  of  learning. — •  EruditioD 
(or  11  dish'  un),  learning  ;  knowledge  gained  by  study. — *  Rule  (r6l). — 
*  Puny,  the  Elder,  a  distinguished  Roman  writer  on  natural  history 
and  botany,  was  born  a.  d.  23,  and  died  in  79.  Puny,  the  Younger, 
nephew  of  the  preceding,  a  distinguished  writer,  orator,  and  statos- 
m:in,  was  born  a.  d.  61  or  62. — »  John  Locke,  one  of  the  greatest 
philosophers  and  metaphysicians  that  England  ever  produced,  waa 
born  1682,  and  died  1704.  His  "  Essay  on  the  Human  Understanding' 
was  for  a  long  time  a  text-book  iu  our  colleges.  But  he  is  perhaps 
entitled  to  greater  respect  for  his  powerful  defense  of  civil  and  reli- 
gious liberty. — •  Academician  (ak  a  de  m!sh  an),  a  member  of  an  asso- 
ciatiou  of  scholars  or  artists.  The  term  originated  in  Athens  (Ath'  enz), 
from  the  plate  where  Plato  gave  instruction  to  iiis  f(»l lowers.     There 


NKVKR    DIvSPAIR.  77 

6.  In  works  of  fancy,  invention  ought  to  bear  away  the  palm: 
chiefiy  that  invention  which  creates  a  new  kind  of  writing ;  and 
next,  that  which  displays  the  charms  of  novelty  in  its  subject, 
characters,  situation,  pictures,  thoughts,  and  sentiments.  Yet 
this  invention  will  miss  its  effect,  unless  it  be  accompanied  wifli 
a  genius  capable  of  adapting  itself  to  every  variety  of  the  subject, 
— successively  sublime,  pathetic,  flowery,  majestic,  and  playful  • 
and  with  a  judgment  which  admits  nothing  indeco'rous,'  and  s 
style  which  expresses  well  whatever  ought  to  be  said. 

v.  As  to  compilations  which  are  intended  merely  to  tre;isurt 
up  the  thoughts  of  others,  I  ask  whether  they  are  written  wifli 
perspicuity^ — whether  superfluities  are  lopped  off,  and  dispersed 
observations  skillfully  collected  ;  and  agreeably  to  my  answers  to 
those  questions,  I  estimate  the  merit  of  such  performances. 

Edward  Gibbon. 

Edward  Gibbon,  one  of  the  most  celebrated  historians  of  any  age  or  country, 
was  born  at  Putney,  Surrey,  Enjjland,  '27th  of  April,  1737,  and  died  January 
IGth,  1794.  His  reputation  as  a  writer  and  scholar  is  founded  on  the  celebrated 
"  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  lUnnan  Empire."  The  design  of  this  great  work  he 
conceived  in  17().),  published  the  first  volume  in  February,  1776,  and  completed 
it  Sh  the  27th  of  June,  17H7.  They  who  have  read  it,  so  far  from  wondering  at 
the  time  consunjed  in  its  preparation,  a  period  of  twenty-one  years,  are  amazed 
at  the  indefatigable  industry,  which,  in  a  lifetime,  could  execute  a  work  of  such 
vast  erudition.  'I'he  style  of  Gibbon  has  great  merits,  mixed  with  some  not 
trivial  defects.  His  diction  is  precise,  energetic,  massive— splendid  where  the 
pictorial  demands  of  the  narrative  require  it— and  sometimes,  where  profound 
reflections  are  to  be  concisely  expressed,  remarkably  sententious  and  graphic. 
Yet,  the  value  of  his  leanicd  work  is  much  depreciated  by  the  insidious  attacks 
he  so  frequently  made  on  every  thing  sacred.  This  is  the  more  to  be  regretted, 
as  he  was  one  of  the  most  strikingly  eloquent  writers  of  the  English  language 


4.  Never  Dp:spaik. 

THERE  is  no  trait  of  human  character  so  potential  for  weal 
or  woe  as  firmness.     To  the  business  man  it  is  all-important. 
Before  its  irresistible  energy  the  most  formidable  obstacles  be- 

were  different  academies  in  the  various  countries  of  Europe,  as  in  France. 
Sweden,  and  Russia.  They  who  embraced  the  principles  of  these  acad- 
emies were  called  academicians. — '  In  de  c6'  rous,  indecent ;  contrary  to 
good-breeding  or  established  rules. — "  Per  spi  cu'  i  ty,  in  writing;,  is 
writing  in  such  a  style  that  the  meaning  may  easily  be  understf)od  r»i 
seen  th-oiigh. — *  Potential  (po  tfen'  shal),  efficacious  ;  powerful. 


78  NATIONAL    FIFTH    RKADKR. 

come  as  cobwol)  barriers  in  its  path.  Difficulties,  the  terror  of 
which  causes  the  pampered'  sons  of  luxury  to  sliriuk  back  wiflli 
dismay,  provoke  from  the  man  of  lofty  determination  only  a 
smile.  The  whole  history  of  our  race — all  nature,  indeed — 
teems  with  examples  to  show  what  wonders  may  be  accom- 
plished by  resolute  perseverance  and  patient  toil. 

2.  It  is  related  of  Tamerlane,^  the  celebrated  warrior,  the  terror 
of  whose  arms  spread  through  all  the  Eastern  nations,  and  whom 
victory  attended  at  almost  every  step,  that  he  once  learned  from 
an  insect  a  lesson  of  perseverance,  which  had  a  striking  effect  on 
his  future  character  and  success. 

3.  When  closely  pursued  by  his  enemies — as  a  contemporary 
tells  the  anecdote — he  took  refuge  in  some  old  ruins,  where,  left 
to  his  solitary  musings,  he  espied  an  ant  tugging  and  striving  to 
carry  a  single  grain  of  corn.  His  unavailing  efforts  were  re- 
peated sixty-nine  times,  and  at  each  several  tnne,  so  soon  as  he 
reached  a  certain  point  of  projection,  he  fell  back  with  his  bur- 
den, unable  to  surmount  it ;  but  the  seventieth  time  he  bore 
away  his  spoil  in  triumph,  and  left  the  wondering  hero  reani- 
mated and  exulting  in  the  hope  of  future  victory. 

4.  How  pregnant  the  lesson  this  incident  conveys !  How 
many  thousand  instances  there  are  in  which  inglorious  defeat 
ends  the  career  of  the  timid  and  desponding,  when  the  same 
tenacity  of  purpose  would  crown  it  with  triumphant  success ! 
Resolution  is  almost  omnipotent.  Sheridan'  was  at  first  timid, 
and  obliged  to  sit  down  in  the  midst  of  a  speech.  Convinced 
of,  and  mortified  at,  the  cause  of  his  failure,  he  said  one  day 
to  a  friend,  "  It  is  in  me,  and  it  shall  come  out."     From  that 

*  P^m'  pered,  hi^bly  fed. — 'Tamerlane,  called  also  Timour  the  Tar- 
tiir,  wiis  born  1335.  He  became  sovereign  of  TarUiry,  and  subdued 
Persia,  India,  and  Syria.  With  an  army  of  200,000  men,  in  a  battle 
fought  at  Angora,  on  the  20th  July,  1402,  he  defeated  the  Turkish 
army,  composed  of  300,000  men,  and  made  their  emperor,  Bajazot, 
prisoner.  He  was  on  the  point  of  invading  China,  when  he  was 
soizcd  with  a  violent  fever,  and  died  soon  after  tjiking  the  field.  18th 
February,  1405. — '  Richaud  Brixsley  Shkridan  was  born  at  DubliU/  in 
1751.  He  was  unrivaled  in  wit  and  had  few  equals  as  an  orator,  .le 
was  a  member  of  the  British  pfirliament  for  thirty-two  yt;ars.  In  the 
latter  part  of  his  life  he  was  dissipated,  involved  in  debt,  and  duuik 
deeply  of  the  cup  of  bitterness.     Fe  died  in  18 IG. 


PENNSYLVANIA.  79 

moment  be  rose,  and  shone,  and  trinmplied  in  a  consummate 
eloquence.  Here  was  true  moral  courage.  And  it  was  well 
observed  by  a  heathen  moralist,  tliat  it  is  not  because  things  are 
difficult  that  we  dare  not  undertake  them. 

5.  Be,  then,  bold  in  spirit.  Indulge  no  doubts — they  are 
traitors.'  In  the  practical  pui*suit  of  our  high  aim,  let  us  never 
lose  sight  of  it  in  the  slightest  instance ;  for  it  is  more  by  a  dis- 
regard of  small  things,  than  by  open  and  flagrant  offences,  that 
men  come  short  of  excellence.  There  is  always  a  right  and  a 
wrong ;  and  if  you  ever  doubt,  be  sure  you  take  not  the  wrong. 
Observe  this  rule,  and  every  experience  will  be  to  you  a  means 
of  advancement. 


6.  Pennsylvaioa. 

1  "p AIR  Pennsylvania !  than  thy  midland  vales, 
J.  Lying  'twixt  hills  of  green,  and  bound  afar 
By  billowy  mojntains  rolling  in  the  blue, 

No  lovelier  landscape  meets  the  traveler's  eye. 
There  Labor  sows  and  reaps  his  sure  reward, 
And  Peace  and  Plenty  walk  amid  the  glow 
And  per'fume  of  full  garners. 

2  I  have  seen 

In  lands  less  free,  less  fair,  but  far  more  known, 
The  strea-ms  which  flow  through  history  and  wash 
The  legendary^  shores — and  cleave  in  twain 
Old  capitals  and  towns,  dividing  6ft 
Great  empires  and  estates  of  petty  kings 
And  princes,  whose  domains  full  many  a  field. 
Rustling  wi^  maize  along  our  native  West, 
Out-measures  and  might  put  to  shame !  and  yet 
Nor  Rhine,  like  Bacchus^  crownM,  and  reeling  through 

* '  on  sum'  mate,  accomplished  ;  perfect. — *  Traitors  :  Shakspeare  has 
mos<  beautifully  expiessed  this  idea:  "Our  doubts  are  truitors,  and 
make  us  lose  the  good  we  oft  might  win,  by  daring  to  attempt." — •  Leg- 
endary (ISd' jen  dare),  connected  with  some  legend  or  story. — *  Bacchus, 
or  rather  Dionysus,  the  youthful,  beautiful,  but  effeminate  god  of  wine, 
in  heathen  mythology,  represented  as  crowned  with  vine  leaves. 


yO  NATIONAL    FIFTH    EEADICR. 

His  hills — ror  Danube,  marr'd  with  tyranny, 
His  dull  waves  moaning  on  llungaiian  shores — 
Nor  rapid  Po,  his  opaque'  waters  pouring 
Atliwait  th'i  fairest,  tVuitfulest,  a'ld  worst 
Enslaved  of  European  lands — nor  Seine,^ 
Winding  uneertain  through  inconstant  France — 
Are  half  so  fair  as  thy  broad  stream,  w  hose  breast 
Is  gemm'd  with  many  isles,  and  whose  proud  nanit 
Shall  yet  become  among  the  names  of  rivers 
A  synonym'  of  beauty — Susquehanna ! 

3.  But  where,  fair  land,  thy  smaller  streams  invite 
Wifli  music  among  plenteous  farms,  I  turn, 
As  to  a  parent's''  fond  embrace,  and  lay. 

Well  pleased,  my  way-worn  mantle  by,  and  shed, 

With  grateful  heart,  from  off  my  weary  feet 

The  white  dust  gather'd  in  the  world's  highway 

Here  my  young  muse  first  learn'd  to  love  and  dream — 

To  love  the  simplest  blossom  by  the  road — 

To  dream  such  dreams  as  will  not  come  again. 

And  for  one  hour  of  that  unletter'd  time — 

One  hour  of  that  wild  music  in  the  heart, 

When  Fancy,  like  the  swallow's  aimless  wing, 

Flitted  eccentric*  through  all  moods  of  nature — 

I  would  exchange,  thrice  told,  this  weary  day, 

4.  Then  were  yon  hills,  still  beautiful  and  blue, 
Great  as  the  Andes ;  and  this  rushy  brook. 
Which  the  light  foot-board,  fallen,  turns  aside, 
A  flood  considerable,  wifti  noisy  falls 

And  gnlfy  pools  profound  ;  and  yonder  stream, 
The  fisher  wades  with  ease  to  throw  his  bait 
Into  the  larger  ripple,  was  a  river 
To  measure  Jordan^  by !     For  then  my  thouglits 
Were  full  of  scriptural  lore,  6ft  heard  at  morn, 

J  Opaque  (o  pik'),  impervious  to  light ;  not  transparent. — »  Seine  (sin), 
— •  Syn'  o  nyra,  a  word  which  has  the  same  significjition  or  meaning  as 
another,  is  its  synom/m. — *  Fkr'  cut. — *  Eccentric  (ek  sfen'  trik),  deviating 
from  the  center;  iircgular. — •  Jor'dan,  a  famous  river  of  Asiatic  Tur- 
key, forming  the  east    oundarj  of  Palestine. 


8ARBATI1    MOKNING.  81 

And  in  the  evening  heard,  until  the  place 
Became  a  Palestine,  while  o'er  the  hills 
The  blue  horl'zon  compass'd  all  the  world. 

,j  T.  Buchanan  Eead. 

Thomas  Buchanan  Read  was  bom  in  Chester  county,  Pennsylvania,  March 
]2th,  1822.  In  1839  he  went  to  Cincinnati,  where  he  was  employed  in  the  studio 
of  Clevenger,  the  sculptor,  and  here  his  attention  was  first  called  to  painting, 
which  he  chose  for  his  profession,  and  soon  practiced  with  marked  skill  and  suc- 
cess. He  settled  in  New  York  city  in  1841.  After  a  few  montlis  he  removed  to 
Boston,  where  he  remained  until  1846,  and  then  went  to  Philadelphia,  where  he 
practiced  his  profession,  writing  occasionally  for  periodicals,  until  1850,  when  he 
first  visited  Europe.  In  the  summer  of  1853  he  went  abroad  a  second  time,  and 
settled  in  Florence,  where  he  now  resides.  In  1853  he  issued  an  illustrated  edi- 
tion of  his  poems,  comprising,  with  some  new  pieces,  all  lie  wished  to  preserve 
of  volumes  previously  printed.  In  1855  he  published  "  The  House  by  the  Sea" 
and  "The  New  Pastoral,"— the  latter,  in  thirty-seven  books,  from  which  the 
above  extract  is  taken,  being  the  longest  of  his  poems.  Mr.  Read's  distinguishing 
characteristic  is  a  delicate  and  varied  play  of  fancy.  His  verse,  though  some- 
times irregular,  is  always  musical.  He  excels  in  homely  descriptions.  The 
flowers  by  the  dusty  wayside,  the  cheerful  murmur  of  the  meadow  brook,  the 
village  tavern,  and  rustic  mill,  and  all  tender  impulses  and  affections,  sue  his 
choice  sources  of  inspiration. 


^H 


6.  Sabbath  Morning. 

OW  still  the  morning  of  the  hallow'd  day! 
Mute  is  the  voice  of  rural'  labor,  hushM 
The  plowboy's  whistle,  and  the  milkmaid's  song. 
The  scythe  lies  glittering  in  the  dewy  wreath 
Of  tedded'  grass,  mingled  with  fading  flowers, 
That  ygster-morn  bloom'd,  waving  in  the  breeze. 
Sounds,  the  most  faint,  attract  the  ear, — the  hum 
Of  early  bee,  the  trickling  of  the  dew. 
The  distant  bleating,  midway  up  the  hill. 
Calmness  sits  throned  on  yon  unmoving  cloud. 

2.  To  him  who  wanders  o'er  the  upland  ISas, 

The  blackbird's  note  comes  mellower  from  the  dale ; 
And  sweeter  from  the  sky  the  gladsome  lark 
Warbles  with  heaven-tuned  song ;  the  lulling  brook 
Murmurs  more  gently  down  the  deep-worn  glen ; 


Rural  (r6'  ral). — '  TSd'  (led,  spread  out  after  being  mowed  down. 

e 


82  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

While  from  yon  lowly  roof,  whose  curling  smoke 
O'ermounts  the  mist,  is  heard,  at  intervals, 
The  voice  of  psalms, — the  simple  song  of  praise. 

3.  Wifh  dove-like  v^rings,  Peace  o'er  yon  village  broods : 
The  dizzying  mili-wheel  rests ;  the  anvil's  din 
Hath  ceased  ;  all,  all  around  is  quietness. 

Less  fearful,  on  this  day,  the  limping  hare 

Stops,  and  looks  back,  and  stops,  and  looks  on  man, 

Her  deadliest  foe.     The  toil-worn  horse,  set  free, 

Unheedful  of  the  pasture,  roams  at  large ; 

And  as  his  stiff,  unwieldy  bulk  he  rolls. 

His  iron-arm'd  hoofs  gleam  in  the  morning  ray. 

4.  But  chiefly  man  the  day  of  rest  enjoys. 

Hail,  Sabbath  !  thee  I  hail,  the  poor  man's  day. 

On  other  days,  the  man  of  toil  is  doom'd 

To  eat  his  joyless  bread  lonely, — the  ground 

Both  seat  and  board,  screen'd  from  the  winter's  cold 

And  summer's  heat  by  neighboring  hedge  or  tree ; 

But  on  this  day,  embosom'd  in  his  home. 

He  shares  the  frugal  meal  wifh  those  he  loves ; 

With  those  he  loves,  he  shares  the  heart-felt  joy 

Of  giving  thanks  to  God, — not  thanks  of  form, 

A  word  and  a  grimace^,  but  reverently. 

With  cover'd  face,  and  upward,  earnest  eye. 

5.  Hail,  Sabbath !  thee  I  hail,  the  poor  man's  day : 
The  pale  mechanic  now  has  leave  to  breathe 
The  morning  air,  pure  from  the  city's  smoke; 
While,  wandering  slowly  up  the  river's  side, 
He  meditates  on  Him,  whose  power  he  marks 

In  each  green  tree  that  proudly  spreads  the  bough, 
As  in  the  tiny  dew-bent  flowers  that  bloom 
Aror.nd  its  roots ;  and  while  he  thus  surveys, 
Wifli  elevated  joy,  each  rural  charm, 
He  hopes, — yet  fears  presumption  in  the  hope, — 
That  heaven  may  be  one  Sabbath  without  end. 

6.  But  now  his  steps  a  welcome  sound  recalls : 
Solemn  the  knell,  from  yonder  an-^icnt  pile, 


SABBATH    MOKNING.  83 

Fills  all  the  iir,  inspiring  joyful  awe : 

Slowly  the  throng  moves  o'er  the  tomb-paved  ground; 

The  aged  man,  the  bowed  down,  the  blind 

Led  by  the  thoughtless  boy,  and  he  who  breathes 

With  pain,  and  eyes  the  new-made  grave,  well-pleased ; 

These,  mingled  with  the  young,  the  gay,  approach 

The  house  of  God — these,  spite  of  all  their  ills, 

A  glow  of  gladness  feel;  with  silent  praise 

They  enter  in  ;  a  placid  stillness  reigns, 

Until  the  man  of  God,  worthy  the  name^ 

Opens  the  book,  and  reverentially 

The  stated  portion  reads.     A  pause  ensues. 

7,  The  organ  breathes  its  distant  thunder-notes, 
Then  swells  into  a  diapason'  full : 

The  people  rising  sing,  "  with  harp,  with  harp, 
And  voice  of  psalms ;"  harmoniously  attuned, 
The  various  voices  blend ;  the  long-drawn  aisles, 
At  every  close,  the  lingering  strain  prolong. 
And  now  the  tubes  a  soften'd  stop  controls ; 
In  softer  harmony  the  people  join, 
While  liquid  whispers  from  yon  orphan  band 
Recall  the  soul  from  adoration's  trance, 
And  fill  the  eye  with  pity's  gentle  tears. 

8.  Again  the  organ-peal,  loud,  rolling,  meets 
The  halleluiahs'  of  the  choir.     Sublime 
A  thousand  notes  symphoniously  ascend, 
As  if  the  whole  were  one,  suspended  high 
In  air,  soaring  heavenward  :  afar  they  float, 
Waftinor  o-lad  tidinirs  to  the  sick  man's  couch : 
Raised  on  his  arm,  he  lists  the  cadence  close. 
Yet  thinks  he  hears  it  still :  his  heart  is  cheer'd ; 
He  smiles  on  death  ;  but  ah  !  a  wish  will  rise — 
"Would  I  were  now  beneafti  that  echoinof  roof! 
No  lukewarm  accents  from  my  lips  should  flow ; 
My  heart  would  sing ;  and  many  a  sabbath-day 

*  Diapason  (dl  api' zon),  in  music,  the  octave  or  interval  which  in- 
cludes all  the  tones.—'  Halleluiah  (lial  le  lu'  yi),  praise  ye  the  Lord. 


84  NATIONAL    FIFfll    READKR. 

My  steps  should  thitlier  turn ;  or,  wandering  far 
In  solitary  paths,  wh<u'e  wild  flowers  blow. 
There  would  1  bless  His  name  who  led  me  ftirth 
From  death's  dark  vale,  to  walk  amid  those  sweets — 
Who  gives  the  bloom  of  health  once  more  to  glow 
Upon  this  cheek,  and  lights  this  languid  eye." 

James  Gkaiiamb. 

Rev.  Jamks  Gkahame  was  born  in  Glasgow,  Scotland,  in  the  year  17G5  J] 
stmliwl  law  ami  practiced  at  tlie  .Scottisli  bar  several  years,  but  afterward  tooi 
uiiU'fs  in  the  Churcli  of  England,  and  was  successively  curate  of  IShipton, m 
(iioucestersliire,  and  of  ^edjfetield,  in  the  county  of  Durham.  Ill  health  com- 
peiltHi  Itini  to  almnilou  his  curacy  when  his  virtues  and  talents  had  attracted 
notice  and  rendered  liini  a  |>opular  and  useful  preacher;  and  on  revisitinjr  Scot- 
land, lie  died  on  the  Nth  of  .September,  1811.  His  works  consist  of  "  Mary, 
Queen  of  Scotland,"  a  ilrainatic  poem,  published  in  181)1;  "'rh«  Sabbatii," 
fronj  wtjich  the  above  selection  is  taken;  "Sabbath  Walks,"  "  -biblical  I*ic- 
tures,"  "  I'he  Hirds  of  Scotland,"  and  "  British  (ieorjfics,"  all  in  blank  verse. 
*' Tlje' ."■  abbalit"  is  lite  best  of  his  productions.  The  poet  was  ni'-dest  and  de- 
vout, though  somelimes  filooniy  in  ids  seriousness.  ..  H is  prevailing  tone,  how- 
ever, is  that  of  implicit  trust  in  the  goodness  of  God,  and  enjoyment  in  his 
creation. 


7.  Maternal  Ai'Tection. 

WOMAN'S  charms  are  certainly  many  and  powerful.  The 
expaikling  rose  just  bursting  into  beauty  has  an  irresistible 
bewitchingness ;  the  blooming  bride  led  triumphantly  to  the 
hymene'al  altar  awakens  admiration  and  interest,  and  the  blush 
of  her  cheek  fills  wifli  delight ;  but  the  cliarm  of  maternity  is 
more  sublime  than  all  these.  Heaven  has  imprinted  in  the 
mother's  face  something  beyond  this  world,  something  which 
claims  kindred  with  the  skies, — the  angelic  smile,  the  tender 
look,  the  waking,  watchful  eye,  which  keeps  its  fond  vigil  over 
her  slumbering  babe. 

2.  These  are  objects  which  neither  the  pencil  nor  the  chisel 
can  touch,  which  poetry  fails  to  exalt,  which  the  most  eloquent 
tongue  m  vain  would  eulogize,  and  on  which  all  description  be- 
comes ineflfective.  In  the  heart  of  man  lies  this  lovely  picture  ; 
it  lives  in  his  sympathies;  it  reigns  in  his  aftcctions;  his  eye 
looks  round  in  vain  for  smh  aiiother  object  on  earth. 


SHAKING    HANDS.  85 

3.  Maternity,  ecstatic'  sound!  so  twined  round  our  hearts, 
tliat  they  must  cease  to  throb  ere  we  forget  it !  'tis  our  first 
love ;  'tis  part  of  our  religion.  Nature  has  set  the  mother  upon 
such  a  pinnacle,  that  our  infant  eyes  and  arms  are  first  uplifted 
to  it ;  we  cling  to  it  in  manhood  ;  we  almost  worship  it  in  old  age. 

4.  He  who  can  enter  an  apartment,  and  behold  the  tender 
babe  feeding  on  its  mother's  beauty — nourished  by  the  tide  oi 
life  which  flows  through  her  generous  veins,  without  a  panting 
bosom  and  a  grateful  eye,  is  no  man,  but  a  monster,  lie  who 
can  approach  the  cradle  of  sleeping  innocence  without  thinking 
that  "  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven  !"  or  see  the  fond  parent 
hang  over  its  beauties,  and  half  retain  her  breath  lest  she  should 
break  its  slumbers,  without  a  veneration  beyond  all  common 
feeling,  is  to  be  avoided  in  every  intercourse  of  life,  and  is  fi^. 
only  for  the  shadow  of  darkness  and  the  solitude  of  the  desert. 

Scrap  Book 


8.  Shaking  Hands. 

THERE  are  few  things  of  more  common  occurrence  than  shak 
ing  hands ;  and  yet  I  do  not  recollect  that  there  has  been 
much  speculation  upon  the  subject.  I  confess,  when  I  consider 
to  what  unimportant  and  futile  concerns  the  attention  of  writers 
and  readers  has  been  directed,  I  am  surprised  that  no  one  has 
been  found  to  handle  so  important  a  matter  as  this,  and  attempt 
to  give  the  public  a  rational  view  of  the  doctrine  and  discipline 
of  shaking  hands.  It  is  a  theme  on  which  1  have  myself  theo- 
rized considerable ;  and  I  beg  leave  to  offer  a  few  remarks  on 
the  origin  of  the  practice,  and  the  various  forms  in  which  it  is 
exercised. 

2.  I  have  been  unable  to  find  in  the  ancient  writers  any  dis- 
tinct mention  of  shaking  hands.  They  followed  the  heartiei 
practice  of  hugging  or  embracing,  which  has  not  wliolly  disjip- 
peared  among  grown  persons  in  Europe,  and  children  in  our  own 
country,  and  has  unquestionably  the  advantage  on  the  score  of 
cordiality.  When  the  ancients  trusted  the  business  of  salutation 
to  the  hands  alone,  they  joined  but  did  not  shake  them. 

*  Ec  stdt'  ic,  ravishing  ;  very  delightful. 


S6  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

3.  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  the  practice  grew  np  in  the 
ages  of  chivahy,'  when  the  cumbrous  iron  mail,  in  whicli  the 
knights  were  cased,  prevented  their  embracing ;  and  when,  wifli 
fingers  clothed  in  steel,  the  simple  touch  or  joining  of  the  hands 
would  have  been  but  cold  welcome:  so  that  a  prolonged  junc- 
tion was  a  natural  resort,  to  express  cordiality ;  and,  as  it  would 
have  been  awkward  to  keep  the  hands  unemployed  in  this  posi 
tion,  a  gentle  agitation  or  shaking  might  have  been  natural  1\ 
introduced. 

4.  How  long  the  practice  may  have  remained  in  this  incipient' 
stage,  it  is  impossible,  in  the  silence  of  history,  to  say ;  nor  is 
there  any  thing  in  the  Chronicles,  in  Philip  de  Comines,^  or  the 
Byzantine  historians,''  which  enables  us  to  trace  the  progress  of 
the  art  into  the  forms  in  which  it  now  exists  among  us.  With- 
out, therefore,  availing  myself  of  the  privilege  of  theorists  to 
supply  by  conjecture  the  absence  of  history  or  tradition,  I  shall 
pass  immediately  to  the  enumeration  of  these  forms. 

5.  The  pumjp-handle  shake  is  the  first  which  deserves  notice. 
It  is  executed  by  taking  your  friend's  hand  and  working  it  up 
and  down,  through  an  arc  of  fifty  degrees,  for  about  a  minute 
and  a  half.  To  have  its  nature,  force,  and  character,  this  shake 
should  be  performed  wifti  a  fair,  steady  motion.  No  attempt 
should  be  made  to  give  it  grace,  and  still  less  vivacity  ;*  as  the 
few  instances  in  which  the  latter  has  been  tried  have  uniformly 
resulted  in  dislocating  the  shoulder  of  the  person  on  whom  it  has 
been  attempted.  On  the  contrary,  persons  who  arc  partial  to 
the  pump-handle  shake  should  be  at  some  pains  to  give  an  equa- 
ble,^ tranquil  movement  to  the  operation,  which  shou'd  on  no 

'Chivalry  (shfv'al  ry),  a  military  dignity,  founded  on  the  services  of 
soldiers  on  horseback,  called  knights.  Ages  of  chivalry  extend  from  the 
eleventh  to  the  lifteenth  century. — '  In  clp'i  ent,  beginning  ;  commenc- 
ing ;  early. — 'Philip  de  Comixes,  lord  of  Avgenton,  born  at  Comincs, 
vn  Flanders,  in  1445,  and  died  in  1509.  He  wjis  a  correct  and  di.stin- 
<nished  historian  of  his  own  times. — *  Byzantine  historians,  a  series  of 
Greek  authors  whose  works  relate  to  the  history  of  the  lower  Greek 
empire  from  tlie  fourth  century  to  the  conquest  of  Constantinople  by 
the  Turks,  and  to  the  Turkish  history  until  the  end  of  the  sixteenth 
century. — •VivJc'ity,  liveliness,  or  sprightliness  of  temper  or  behav- 
ior.—" Equable  {h'  kwa  bl),  even  ;  luiform. — '  Tmnquil  (trink'  wil), 
calm  ;  undisturbed 


SHAKING    HANDS.  87 

account  be  continued  after  perspiration  on  the  part  ot  your  friend 
has  commenced. 

6.  The  pendulum  shake  may  be  mentioned  next,  as  being 
somewhat  similar  in  character;  but  moving,  as  the  name  indi- 
cates, in  a  horizontal  instead  of  a  perpendicular  direction.  It  is 
executed  by  sweeping  your  hand  horizontally  toward  your 
friend's,  and,  after  the  junction  is  effected,  rowing  with  it  from 
one  side  to  the  other,  according  to  the  pleasure  of  the  parties. 
The  only  caution  in  its  use,  which  needs  particularly  to  be  given, 
is  not  to  insist  on  performing  it  in  a  plane,  strictly  parallel  to  the 
horl'zon,  when  you  meet  with  a  person  who  has  been  educated 
to  the  pump-handle  shake.  It  is  well  known  that  people  cling 
to  the  forms  in  which  they  have  been  educated,  even  when  the 
substance  is  sacrificed  in  adhering  to  them. 

7  I  had  two  acquaintances,  both  es'timable  men,  one  of  whom 
had  been  brought  up  in  the  pump-handle  shake,  and  the  other 
had  brought  home  the  pendulum  from  a  foreign  voyage.  They 
met,  joined  hands,  and  attempted  to  put  them  in  motion.  They 
were  neither  of  them  feeble  men.  One  endeavoring  to  pump, 
and  the  other  to  paddle,  their  faces  reddened ;  the  drops  stood 
on  their  foreheads ;  and  it  was  at  last  a  pleasing  illustration  of 
the  doctrine  of  the  composition  of  forces'  to  see  their  hands 
slanting  into  an  exact  diagonal,^  in  which  line  they  ever  after 
shook.  But  it  was  plain  to  see  there  was  no  cordiality  in  it ; 
and,  as  is  usually  the  case  wifli  compromises,  both  parties  were 
iiscontcnted. 

8.  The  tourniquet  shake  is  the  next  in  importance.  It  takes 
its  name  from  the  instrument  made  use  of  by  surgeons  to  stop 
the  circulation  of  the  blood,  in  a  limb  about  to  be  amputated. 
It  is  performed  by  clasping  the  hand  of  your  friend  as  far  as 
you  can  in  your  own,  and  then  contracting  the  muscles  of  your 
thumb,  fingers,  and  palm,  till  you.  have  induced  any  degree  of 
compression  you  may  propose  in  the  hand  of  your  friend.  Par- 
ticular care  ought  to  be  taken,  if  your  own  hand  is  hard  and  big 

'  Composition  of  Forces.  It  is  a  principle  in  mechanics,  that  when  a 
body  is  influenced  by  two  forces  in  different  directions,  as  it  can  not 
obey  both,  it  will  move  in  a  direction  helween  the  two,  but  nearer  in  a 
line  with  the  greater  force. — "'' Di  dg' o  nal,  a  straight  line  drawn  from 
angle  to  angle  of  a  square. — 'Tourniquet  (tSr'n;  ket) 


88  NATIONAL    FIFTH    RP:ADER. 

as  a  frying-pan,  and  that  of  your  friend  as  small  and  soft  as  a 
young  maiden's,  not  to  make  use  of  the  tourniquet  shake  to  the 
degree  that  will  force  the  small  bones  of  the  wrist  out  of  place. 
It  is  also  seldom  safe  to  apply  it  to  gouty  persons. 

^  A  hearty  young  friend  of  mine,  who  had  pursued  the  study 
of  geology,  and  acquired  an  unusual  hardness  and  strength  of 
hand  and  wrist  by  the  use  of  the  hammer,  on  returning  from  a 
scientific  excursion,  gave  his  gouty  uncle  the  tourniquet  shake 
wifti  such  severity  as  nearly  reduced  the  old  gentleman's  fingers 
to  powder ;  for  which  my  friend  had  the  pleasure  of  being  dis- 
inherited, as  soon  as  his  uncle's  finger  got  well  enough  to  hold 
a  pen. 

10.  The  cordial  grapple  is  a  shake  of  some  interest.  It  is  a 
hearty,  boisterous  agitation  of  your  friend's  hand,  accompanied 
wifh  moderate  pressure,  and  loud,  cheerful  exclamations  of  wel- 
come. It  is  an  excellent  traveling  shake,  and  well  adapted  to 
make  friends.  It  is  indiscriminately  performed.  The  Peter 
Grievous  touch  is  opposed  to  the  cordial  grapple.  It  is  a  pen- 
sive, tranquil  junction,  followed  by  a  mild  subsul'tory'  motion,  a 
cast-down  look,  and  an  inarticulate  inqui'ry  after  your  friend's 
health. 

11.  The  'prude^  major  and  prude  minor  are  nearly  monopolized 
by  the  ladies.  They  can  not  be  accurately  described,  but  are 
constantly  to  be  noticed  in  practice.  They  never  extend  beyond 
the  fingers,  and  the  prude  major  allows  you  to  touch  even  then 
only  down  to  the  second  joint.  The  prude  minor  gives  you  the 
whole  of  the  fore-finger.  Considerable  skill  may  be  shown  in 
performing  these  wifh  nice  variations,  such  as  extending  the  left 
hand  instead  of  the  right,  or  stretching  a  new  glossy  kid-glove 
over  the  finger  you  extend. 

12.  I  might  go  through  a  list  of  the  gripe  royal,  the  saio-mlll 
.;hake,  and  the  shake  with  malice  pi'epense' ;^  but  these  are  only 
r:<<'titious''  comlwnations  of  the  three  fundamental  forms  already 

I  escribed,  under  the  pump-handle,  the  pendulum,  and  .the  tour- 
Mjuet;  as  the  loving pai,  the  touch  romantic^  and  the  sentimental 

'  Snb  Kul'  to  ry,  twitching: ;  moving  by  sudden  leaps  or  starts. — ^  Prude 
ipr^d). — ^  Pre  pfense',  aforethought;  premeditated;  eontrived  before 
hand. — *  Factitious  fak  tish'rs),  unnatural;  aitiiicial 


THE   DREAM    OF   THE    REVELER  8l> 

dasp^  ma/  be  reduced,  in  their  main  movements,  to  various  com- 
binations and  modifications  of  the  cordial  grapple,  the  Peter 
Grievous  touch,  and  the  prude  major  and  minor.  I  should 
trouble  the  reader  with  a  few  remarks,  in  conclusion,  on  the 
mode  of  shaking  hands,  as  an  indication  of  characters ;  but  as  I 
see  a  friend  coming  up  the  avenue  who  is  addicted  to  the  pump- 
handle,  I  dare  not  tire  my  wrist  by  further  writing. 

Edward  Everett. 

Edward  Everett,  one  of  the  most  eminent  of  American  scholars  and  rhet- 
oricians, W£is  born  in  Dorchester,  near  Boston,  in  1794.  He  entered  Harvard 
College  at  the  age  of  thirteen,  where  he  graduated  in  1811,  with  a  rare  reputa- 
tion for  acquirements  and  abilities.  He  at  first  turned  his  attention  to  law.  but 
soon  decided  to  study  theology,  and  had  been  two  years  in  the  divinity  school  at 
Cambridge,  when  he  was  settled  as  minister  of  the  church  in  Brattle-street,  eis 
the  successor  of  the  lamented  Buckminster.  In  1815,  before  he  was  twenty-one 
years  of  age,  he  was  elected  professor  of  Greek  Literature  in  Harvard  College. 
Before  entering  upon  the  duties  of  his  new  office,  he  visited  Europe  for  the  im- 
provement of  his  health,  which  had  been  impaired  by  severe  application  to  his 
pastoral  duties.  He  passed  several  months  at  Gottingen,  where  he  acquired  the 
German  language,  visiting  also,  before  his  return,  most  of  the  countries  of  Eu- 
rope. Here  he  acquired  the  friendship  of  the  most  eminent  men  of  the  age. 
He  has  subsequently  been  a  member  of  both  houses  of  Congress,  Governor  of 
Massachusetts,  President  of  Harvard  University,  Secretary  of  State,  and  Em- 
bassador to  England. 


9.  The  Dream  of  the  Keveler. 

I. 

AROUND  the  board  the  guests  were  met,  the  lights  above 
them  beaming. 

And  in  their  cups,  rcplenish'd  6ft,  the  ruddy  wine  was  streaming; 

Their  cheeks  were  tlush'd,  their  eyes  were  bright,  their  hearts 
wifli  pleasure  bounded. 

The  song  was  sung,  the  toast  was  given,  and  loud  the  revel 
sounded. 

I  drain'd  a  goblet  with  the  rest,  and  cried,  "  Away  with  sorrow  ! 

Let  us  be  happy  for  to-day ;  what  care^  we  for  to-morrdw  ?" 

But  as  I  spoke,  my  sight  grew  dim,  and  slumber  deep  came  o'ci 
me, 

And,  mid  the  whirP  of  mingling  tongues,  this  vision  pass'd'  be- 
fore me. 

'Cke.—' Whirl  (wlieil).—*  Passed  (past). 


90  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

II. 

Alethonglit  I  saw  a  demon  rise :  he  held  a  mighty  bicker,' 

Whose  burnish VP  sides  ran  brimming  o*er  with  floods  of  burn- 
ing^ liquor; 

Around  him  prcss'd  a  clamorous  crowd,  to  taste  this  liquor 
greedy, 

But  chiefly  came  the  poor  and  sad,  the  suffering  and  the  need}  ; 

All  those  oppress'd  by  grief  or  debt,  the  dissolute,  the  lazy. 

Blear-eyed  old  men  and  reckless  youths,'*  and  palsied  woraen 
crazy ; 

"Give,  give!"  they  cried — "Give,  give  us  drink,  to  drown  all 
thought  of  sorrow ; 

If  we  are  happy  for  to-day,  we  care  not  for  to-morrow !" 

III. 

The  first^  drop  warm'd  their  shivering  skins,  and  drove  away 
their  sadness ; 

The  second  lit  their  sunken  eyes,  and  fill'd  their  souls  wifh  gladness ; 

The  third  drop  made  them  shout  and  roar,  and  play  each  furi- 
ous antic ; 

The  fourth  drop  boil'd  their  very  blood ;  and  the  ffth  drop 
drove  them  frantic. 

"Drink !"  said  the  Demon,  "Drink  your  fill !  drink  of  these  wa- 
ters mellow ; — 

They'll  make  your  eyeballs  sear  and  dull,  and  turn  your  white 
skins  yellow ; 

They'll  fill  your  homes  with  care  and  grief,  and  clothe  your 
backs  with  tatters ; 

Tliey'll  fill  your  hearts  with  evil  thoughts :  but  never  mind ! — 
what  matters  ? 

IV. 

**  Though  virtue*  sink,  and  reason  ftiil,  and  social  ties  dissever, 
I'll  be  your  friend  in  hour  of  need,  and  find  you  homes  forever ; 
For  I  have  built  three  mansions  high,  three  strong  and  goodly 

houses, 
To  lodge  at  last^  each  jolly  soul  who  all  his  life  carouses. 

*  Blck'er,  a  bowl  or  cup. — '  Burnished  (b^r'  nisht). — '  Burning  (b6m'- 
Ing).— *  Y6uths.— *  F-rst  (fSrst).— "  Virtue  (v5rt'  yu).— '  Ld«t. 


THE  DKEAM  OF  THE  KEVELER.  91 

ll^e  Jirst^  it  is  a  spacious  boiisc,  to  all  but  sots  appalling, 
Where,  by  the  parish  bounty  fed,  vile,  in  the  sunshine  crawling, 
The  worn-out  drunkard  ends  his  days,  and  eats  the  dole  of  othere, 
A  plague  and  burden'  to  himself,  an  eyesore  to  his  brothers. 

V. 

"The  second  is  a  lazar-house,*^  rank,  i^tid,  and  unholy; 
Where,  smitten  by  diseases  foul  and  hopeless  melancholy. 
The  victims  of  potations  deep  pine  on  the  couch  of  sadness, 
Some  calling  Death  to  end  their  pain,  and  others  wrought  to 

madness. 
The  third  and  last  is  black  and  high,  the  abode  of  guilt  and  an- 
guish, 
And  full  of  dungeons  deep  and  fast,^  where  death-doom'd  felons 

lano-uish. 
So  drain  the  cup,  and  drain  again !     One  of  my  goodly  houses 
Shall  lodge  at  last  each  jolly  soul  who  to  the  dregs  carouses !" 

VI. 

But  well  he  knew — that  Demon   old — how   vain  was  all  his 

preaching, 
The  ragged  crew  that  round  him  flock'd  were  heedless  of  hi& 

teaching; 
Even  as  they  heard  his  fearful  words,  they  cried,  with  shouts  of 

laughter^ — 
"  Out  on  the  fool  who  mars  to-day  with  thought  of  a  hereafter ! 
We  care  not  for  thy  houses  three  :  weiive  but  for  the  present ; 
And  merry  will  we  make  it  yet,  and  quaff*  our  bumpers  pleasant." 
Loud  iaugh'd  the  fiend  to  hear  them  speak,  and,  lifting  high  his 

bicker, 
"  Body  and  soul  are  mine !"  said  he,  "  I'll  have  them  both  foi 

liquor."  Charles  Mackay. 

Charles  Mackay,  LL.  D.,  a  British  poet  and  jounialist,  was  bom  in  Perth, 
1812.  He  was  editor  of  the  Morning  Chronicle  for  five  years,  and  the  Glasjiow 
Argus  for  thrt'e.  He  is  an  author  of  considerable  fame,  ranking  among  tlie  first 
Df  tiie  present  British  poets,  and  still  writes  for  tlie  Illustrated  London  News. 


*  Burden  (b^»r'  dn). — '  L^'  zar-hoiise,  a  house  for  lazars,  or  persons  af- 
fected with  nauseous  or  pestilential  disease.— '  Fdst. — *  Laughter  (lif- 
ter).—"Quaff. 


02  NATIONAL   FIFTH    READER. 


10.  Peter  Pounce  and  Parson  Adams.^ 

PETER  POUNCE,  being  desirous  of  having  some  one  to 
whom  he  might  communicate  his  grandeur,  told  the  parson 
he  would  convey  him  home  in  his  chariot.  This  favor  was,  by 
Adams,  wifli  many  bows  and  acknowledgments,  accepted,  tliongh 
he  afterward  said  he  ascended  the  chariot  ratlier  that  he  might 
not  offend,  than  from  any  desire  of  riding  in  it,  for  that  in  his 
heart  he  preferred  the  pedestrian  even  to  the  vehicular  expedi- 
tion. 

2.  The  chariot  had  not  procc  ded  far,  before  Mr.  Adams  ob- 
served it  was  a  very  ilno  day.  "'Ay,  and  a  very  fine  country, 
too,"  answered  Pounce. 

3.  "I  should  think  so  more,"  returned  Adams,  "if  I  had  r.ot 
lately  traveled  over  the  Downs,  which  I  take  to  exceed  this,  and 
all  other  prospects  in  the  universe."  "A  fig  for  prospects," 
answered  Pounce;  "one  acre  here  is  worth  ten  there  :  for  my 
part,  I  have  no  delight  in  the  prospect  of  any  land  but  my  own." 

4.  "  Sir,"  said  Adams,  "  you  can  indulge  yourself  in  many  fine 
prospects  of  that  kind."  "  I  thank  God  I  have  a  little,"  replied 
the  other,  "  wifh  which  I  am  content,  and  envy  no  man.  1  have 
a  little,  Mr.  Adams,  with  which  1  do  as  much  good  as  1  can." 

5.  Adams  answered,  "that  riches,  without  charity,  Avere 
nothing  worth  ;  for  that  they  were  a  blessing  only  to  him  who 
made  them  a  blessing  to  others."  "You  and  1,"  said  Peter, 
"have  different  notions  of  charity.  I  own,  as  it  is  generally 
used,  I  do  not  like  the  word,  nor  do  I  think  it  becomes  one  of 
us  gentlemen;  it  is  a  mean,  parson-like  quality  ;  though  1  would 
not  infer  that  many  parsons  have  it  neither." 

6.  "  Sir,"  said  Adams,  "my  definition  of  charity  is,  a  generous 
disposition  to  relieve  the  distressed."  "There  is  something  in 
that  definition,"  answered  Peter,  "which  I  like  well  enough;  it 


^  In  the  following  conversation,  which  is  one  of  the  most  exquisite  in 
all  novel-writing,  the  reader  experiences  a  delightful  triinni>h  in  seeing 
how  a  vulgar  upstart  is  led  to  betray  liis  baseness  while  he  thinks  he  is 
most  exalting  himself;  the  jwor,  but  virtuous  and  manly  pamon.  cm 
the  other  hand,  rising  and  becoming  glorious  out  of  the  dt-pths  of  his 
humble  honesty.     This  is  an  admiiable  exercise  in  Permnalion-  eee  p.  GO. 


PETER   POUNCE   AND    PARSON    ADAMS.  93 

IS,  as  you  say,  a  disposition — and  does  not  so  mucli  consist  in 
the  act  as  in  the  disposition  to  do  it :  but,  alas !  Mr.  Adams, 
who  are  meant  by  the  distressed  ?  believe  me,  the  distresses  of 
mankind  are  mostly  imaginary,  and  it  would  be  rather  folly  than 
goodness  to  relieve  them." 

Y.  "  Sure,  sir,"  replied  Adams,  "  hunger  and  thirst,  cold  and 
nakedness,  and  other  distresses  which  attend  the  poor,  can  never 
be  said  to  be  imaginary  evils."  "  How  can  any  man  complain 
of  hunger,"  said  Pounce,  "  in  a  country  where  such  excellent 
salads  are  to  be  g§-thered  in  almost  every  field  ? — or  of  thirst, 
where  every  stream  and  river  produce  such  delicious  potations  ? 
— and  as  for  cold  and  nakedness,  they  are  evils  introduced  by 
luxury  and  custom.  A  man  naturally  wants  clothes  no  more 
than  a  horse  or  any  other  animal ;  and  there  are  whole  nations 
who  go  without  them.  But  these  are  things,  perhaps,  which 
you,  who  do  not  know  the  world — " 

8.  "  You  will  pardon  me,  sir,"  returned  Adams ;  "  I  have  read 
of  the  Gymnos'ophistsr^  "A  plague  of  your  Jehosaphats," 
cried  Peter ;  "  the  greatest  fault  in  our  constitution  is  the  pro- 
vision made  for  the  poor,  except  that  perhaps  made  for  some 
others.  Sir,  I  have  not  an  estate  which  doth  not  contribute  al- 
most as  much  again  to  the  poor  as  to  the  land-tax ;  and  I  do 
assure  you  I  expect  myself  to  come  to  the  parish  in  the  end." 

9.  To  which  Adams  giving  a  dissenting  smile,  Peter  thus  pro- 
ceeded:— "I  fancy,  Mr.  Adams,  you  are  one  of  those  who  ima- 
gine I  am  a  lump  of  money ;  for  there  are  many  who  I  fancy 
believe  that  not  only  my  pockets,  but  my  whole  clothes  are  lined 
with  bank  bills ;  but,  I  assure  you,  you  are  all  mistaken ;  I  am 
not  the  man  the  world  esteems  me.  If  I  can  hold  my  head 
above  water,  it  is  all  I  can.  I  have  injured  myself  by  purchas- 
ing;  I  have  been  too  liberal  of  my  money.  Indeed  I  fear  my 
heir  will  find  my  afi'airs  in  a  worse  situation  than  they  are  re- 
puted to  be.  Ah !  he  will  have  reason  to  wish  I  had  loved 
money  more  and  land  l<'ss.     Pray,  my  good  neighbor,  where 

'  Gym  n6s'  o  phists,  philosophers  of  India,  so  called  because  they  went 
with  bare  feet  and  little  clothing.  They  never  drank  wine,  nor  mar- 
ried. Some  of  them  practiced  m«'ditine.  They  believed  in  the  trans- 
migration of  souls,  and  placi;d  tlie  chief  liaiipiuess  of  man  m  the  con- 
iumpt  of  [Ueasures  ot  sense  autl  Kouda  »f  ft)riune. 


94  NATIONAL    FlhTll    KKAr>KK. 

should  [  have  that  quantity  of  money  the  world  is  so  liberal  to 
bestow  on  nie  ?  Where  could  I  possibly,  without  1  had  stole  it^ 
acquire  such  a  treasure?" 

10.  "Why  truly,"  said  Adams,  "I  have  been  always  of  your 
opinion ;  I  have  wondered,  as  well  as  yourself,  with  what  confi- 
dence they  could  report  such  things  of  you,  which  have  to  me 
appeared  as  mere  impossibilities ;  for  you  know,  sir,  and  I  have 
often  heard  you  say  it,  that  your  wealth  is  of  your  own  acquisi- 
tion ;  and  can  it  be  credible  that  in  your  short  time  you  should 
have  amassed  such  a  heap  of  treasure  as  these  people  will  have 
vou  are  worth  ?  Indeed,  had  you  inherited  an  estate  like  Sir 
Thomas  Booby,  which  had  descended  in  your  family  through 
many  generations,  they  might  have  had  a  color  for  their  asser- 
tions." 

11.  "Why,  what  do  they  say  I  am  worth?"  cries  Peter,  with 
a  malicious  sneer.  "Sir,"  answered  Adams,  "I  have  heard  some 
aver  you  are  not  worth  less  than  twenty  thousand  pounds."  At 
which  Peter  frowned.  "Nay,  sir,"  said  Adams,  "you  ask  me 
only  the  opinion  of  others;  for  my  own  part,  I  have  always  de- 
nied it,  nor  did  I  ever  believe  you  could  possibly  be  worth  half 
that  sum." 

12.  "However,  Mr.  Adams,"  said  he,  squeezing  him  by  the 
hand,  "  I  would  not  sell  them  all  I  am  worth  for  double  that 
sum ;  and  as  to  what  you  believe,  or  they  believe,  I  care  not  a 
fig.  I  am  not  poor,  because  you  think  me  so,  nor  because  you 
attempt  to  undervalue  me  in  the  country.  I  know  the  envy  of 
mankind  very  well ;  but  I  thank  heaven  I  am  above  them.  It 
is  true,  my  wealth  is  of  my  own  acquisition.  I  have  not  an  es- 
tate like  Sir  Thomas  Booby,  that  hath  descended  in  my  tamily 
through  many  generations;  but  I  know  heirs  of  such  estates, 
who  are  forced  to  travel  about  the  country,  like  some  people  in 
torn  cassocks,'  and  might  be  glad  to  accept  of  a  pitiful  curacy,' 
for  what  I  know ;  yes,  sir,  as  shabby  fellows  as  yourself,  whom 
no  man  of  my  figure,  without  that  vice  of  good-nat'ire  dbout 
him,  would  sufter  to  ride  in  a  chariot  with  him." 

^  C&s'  sock,  a  kind  of  long  frock-coat  worn  by  a  priest ;  dose  garment 
or  gown, — "  Cu'  ra  cy,  the  office  of  a  curate,  who  performs  the  duties  in 
the  place  of  the  viair,  parson,  or  incumbent 


NOJJLE    REVENGE.  95 

13.  "Sir,"  said  Adams,  "I  value  not  your  chariot  of  a  rush; 
and  if  I  had  known  you  had  intended  to  affront  me,  I  would 
have  walked  to  the  world's  end  on  foot,  ere  I  would  have  ac- 
cepted a  place  in  it.  However,  sir,  I  will  soon  rid  you  of  that 
inconvenience !"  And  so  saying,  he  opened  the  chariot  doer, 
without  calling  to  the  coachman,  and  leaped  out  into  the  higli- 
way,  forgetting  to  take  his  hat  along  wifii  him ;  which,  however, 
Mr.  Pounce  threw  after  him  with  great  violence. 

Henry  FiELDy^v 

Henry  Fielding  was  bom  at  Sharpham,  Somersetshire,  England,  ApriJ  z--., 
1707.  He  was  educated  at  Eaton,  and  afterward  studied  law  at  Leyden.  H(? 
was  the  author  of  "Joseph  Andrews,"  "A  Journey  from  this  World  to  the 
Next,"  "  Jonathan  Wild,"  "  Tom  Jones,"  and  "  Amelia,"  He  received  X'600 
for  the  copyright  of  "  Tom  Jones,"  and  such  was  its  success,  that  Miller,  the 
publisher,  presented  £100  more  to  the  author.  For  "  Amelia"  he  received  XIOOO* 
In  1749  Fielding  was  appointed  one  of  the  justices  of  Westminster  and  Middle- 
sex, and  was  a  zealous  and  active  magistrate.  He  was  a  kind-hearted  man ; 
but  improvident,  and  in  early  life  dissipated.  He  ranlcs  as  one  of  the  first  among 
English  novelists.  His  style  is  marked  for  light  humor,  lively  description,  and 
keen,  yet  sportive  satire.  Endowed  with  little  of  the  poetical  or  imaginative 
faculty,  his  study  lay  in  real  life  and  every-day  scenes,  which  he  depicted  with 
a  truth  and  freshness,  a  buoyancy  and  vigor,  and  such  an  exuberance  of  prac- 
tical knowledge,  e£isy  raillery,  and  lively  fancy,  that  in  his  own  department  he 
stands  unrivaled.    He  died  at  Lisbon,  on  the  8th  of  October,  1754. 


11.  Noble  K-evenge. 

A  YOUNG  officer  (in  what  army  no  matter)  had  so  far  forgot- 
ten himself,  in  a  moment  of  irritation,  as  to  strike  a  private 
soldier,  full  of  personal  dignity  (as  sometimes  happens  in  all 
ranks),  and  distinguished  for  his  courage.  The  inex'orable'  laws 
of  military  discipline  forbade  to  the  injured  soldier  any  practical 
redress — he  could  look  for  no  retaliation  by  acts.  AVords  only 
were  at  his  command,  and,  in  a  tumult  of  indignation,  as  he 
turned  away,  the  soldier  said  to  his  officer  that  he  would  "  make 
him  repent  it,"  This,  wearing  the  shape  of  a  menace,  naturally 
rekindled  the  officer's  anger,  and  intercepted  any  disposition 
whfch  might  be  rising  within  him  toward  a  sentiment  of  re- 
morse; and  thus  the  irritation  between  the  two  young  men 
grew  hotter  than  before. 

*  In  fex'  o  ra  ble,  immovable  ;  that  can  not  be  made  to  bend. 


96  NATIONAL    FIFfU    READER. 

2.  Some  weeks  after  this  a  partial  action  took  place  wifli  the 
enemy.  Suppose  yourself  a  spectator,  and  looking  down  into  a 
valley  occupied  by  the  two  armies.  They  are  facing  each  other, 
you  see,  in  martial  array.  But  it  is  no  more  than  a  skirmish 
which  is  going  on ;  in  the  course  of  which,  however,  an  occasion 
suddenly  arises  for  a  desperate  service.  A  redoubt,  which  has 
fallen  into  the  enemy's  hands,  must  be  recaptured  at  any  price, 
and  under  circumstances  of  all  but  hopeless  difficulty. 

3.  A  strong  party  has  volunteered  for  the  service ;  there  is  a 
cry  for  somebody  to  head  them ;  you  see  a  soldier  step  out  from 
the  ranks  to  assume  this  dangerous  leadership ;  the  party  moves 
rapidly  forward ;  in  a  few  minutes  it  is  swallowed  up  from  your 
eyes  in  clouds  of  smoke;  for  one  half  hour,  from  behind  these 
clouds  you  receive  hieroglyphic^  reports  of  bloody  strife — fierce 
repeating  signals,  flashes  from  the  guns,  rolling  musketry,  and 
exulting  hurrahs  advancing  or  receding,  slackening  or  redoubling. 

•  4.  At  length  all  is  over ;  the  redoubt  has  been  recovered ; 
that  which  was  lost  is  found  again ;  the  jewel  which  had  been 
made  captive  is  ransomed  wifh  blood.  Crimsoned  with  glorious 
gore,  the  wreck  of  the  conquering  party  is  relieved,  and  at  lib- 
erty to  return.  From  the  river  you  see  it  ascending.  The 
plume-crested  officer  in  command  rushes  forward,  with  his  left 
hand  raising  his  hat  in  homage  to  the  blackened  fragments  of 
what  once  was  a  flag,  whilst  with  his  right  hand  he  seizes  that 
of  the  leader,  though  no  more  than  a  private  from  the  ranks. 
That  perplexes  you  not;  mystery  you  see  none'  in  that.  For 
listinctions  of  order  perish,  ranks  are  confounded;  "high  and 
low"  are  words  without  a  meaning,  and  to  wreck  goes  every 
notion  or  feeling  that  divides  the  noble  from  the  noble,  or  the 
brave  man  from  the  brave. 

5.  But  wherefore''  is  it  that  now,  when  suddenly  they  wheel 
into  mutual  recognition,*  suddenly  they  pause?  This  soldier, 
this  Sfficer — who  are  they?  O  reader!  once  before  they  had 
stood  face  to  face — the  soldier  that  was  struck,  the  officer  that 
struck  him.     Once  again^  they  are  meeting;  and  the  gaze  of 

-HS,lf. — '  Hi  e  ro  glyph' ic,  expressive  of  meaning  by  characters,  pic- 
tures, or  figures. — 'None  (nun).— *  Wherefore  (wh&r' fir). — 'Recogni- 
tion (rek  ognlsh' iin),  acknowledgment;  knowledge  avowed  or  con- 
fessed.— "Again  (agen'^. 


LIFE   m   THE   WEST.  97 

?irmies  is  upon  them.  If  for  a  moment  a  doubt  divides  them, 
in  a  moment  the  doubt  has  perished.  One  glance  exchanged 
between  them  publishes  the  forgiveness  that  is  sealed  forever. 

G.  As  one  who  recovers  a  brother  whom  he  has  accounted 
dead,  the  officer  sprang  forward,  threw  his  arms  around  the 
neck  of  the  soldier,  and  kissed  him,  as  if  he  were  some  martyr 
glorified  by  that  shadow  of  death  from  which  he  was  returning ; 
whilst,  on  his  part,  the  soldier,  stepping  back,  and  canying  his 
t)pen  hand  through  the  beautiful  motions  of  the  military  salute 
to  a  superior,  makes  this  immortal  answer — that  answer  which 
lihut  up  forever  the  memory  of  the  indignity  offered  to  him, 
even  while  for  the  last  time  alluding  to  it :  "  Sir,"  he  said,  "  I 
told  you  before,  that  I  would  make  you  repent  it." 

Thomas  de  Quincey. 

Thomas  Dk  Quincey  was  bom  at  Manchester,  England,  on  tlie  15th  of  Au- 
gust, 1785.  He  passed  his  childhood  in  rural  retirement.  He  was  matriculated 
at  Oxford,  at  Cliristmas,  1803,  being  then  in  his  nineteenth  year,  where  he  re- 
mained till  1808.  He  resided  for  twenty  yejirs,  between  1808  and  1829,  among 
the  lakes  and  mountains  of  Westmoreland,  and  occupied  Wordsworth's  cottage 
seven  years  of  the  time.  De  Quincey's  first  work,  "  Confessions  of  an  English 
Ooium-Eater,"  which  appeared  in  the  London  Magazine,  in  1821,  and  was 
printed  in  book  form  in  1822,  was  immediately  and  immensely  popular.  It 
passed  through  several  editions  in  Europe  and  this  comitry,  and  at  once  placed 
its  author  in  the  front  rank  of  vivid  and  powerful  writers.  After  this  period,  his 
numerous  contributions  to  the  periodical  press  were  paid  for  at  a  large  price. 
He  has  written  upon  a  wider  Euid  more  diversified  range  of  subjects  than  any 
other  author  of  his  time.  He  is  noted  for  his  original  genius,  stores  of  learn- 
ing, depth  of  insight,  and  subtlety  of  thought.  His  matter  is  always  good.  He 
has  acquired  a  style  of  the  rarest  brilliancy  and  riclmess,  but  his  force  is  often 
dimini^ed  by  his  capricious  use  of  words,  and  the  weary  length  of  his  digres- 
sions. 


12.   Life  in  the  West. 

HO !  brothers — come  hither  and  list  to  my  story — 
Mgrry  and  brief  will  the  narrative  be : 
Here,  like  a  monarch,  I  reign  in  my  glory — 

Master'  am  I,  boys,  of  all  that  I  see. 
Where^  once  frown'd  a  forest  a  garden  is  smiling — 
The  meadow  and  moorland  are  marshes  no  more ; 
And  there^  curls^  the  smoke  of  my  cottage,  beguiling 

•M&st€r.— 'Whete  (wh&r).-  'There  (th&r)— 'Curls  (klrlz). 


yo  NATIONAL   FIFTH   KEADEK. 

The  children  who  cluster  like  grapes  at  the  door. 
Then  enter,  boys ;  cheerly,  boys,  enter  and  rest ; 
The  land  of  the  heart  is  the  laad  of  the  West. 

2.  Talk  not  of  the  town,  boys — give  me  the  broad  prairie, 

Where  man  like  the  wind  roams  impulsive  and  free ; 
Behold  how  its  beautiful  colors  all  vary, 

Like  those  of  the  clouds,  or  the  deep-rolling  sea. 
A  life  in  the  woods,  boys,  ife  even  as  changing ; 

Wifh  proud  independence  we  season  our  cheer, 
And  those  who  the  world  are  for  happiness  ranging, 

Won't  find  it  all,  if  they  don't  find  it  here. 
Then  enter,  boys;  cheerly,  boys,  enter  and  rest; 
ril  show  you  the  life,  boys,  we  live  in  the  West. 

8.  Here,  brothers,  secure  from  all  turmoil^  and  danger, 

We  reap  what  we  sow,  for  the  soil  is  our  own; 
We  spread  hospitality's  board  for  the  stranger. 

And  care'  not  a  fig  for  the  king  on  his  throne. 
We  never  know  want,''  for  we  live  by  our  labor, 

And  in  it  contentment  and  happiness  find ; 
We  do  what  we  can  for  a  friend  or  a  neighbor, 

And  die,  boys,  in  peace  and  good-will  to  mankind. 
Then  enter,  boys ;  cheerly,  boys,  enter  and  rest ; 
You  know  how  we  live,  boys,  and  die  in  the  West ! 

Gkorge  p.  Morris. 

George  P.  Morris,  the  popular  song-\vi-iter,  was  bom  at  Philadelphia,  in  1801 
He  commenced  his  literary  career  by  contributions  to  tlie  journals  at  the  early 
age  of  fifteen.  In  1823,  with  Mr.  Woodworth,  he  established  the  "  New  York 
Mirror,"  a  weekly  miscellany,  which  was  conducted  with  much  taste  and  abili- 
ty for  nearly  nineteen  years.  In  conjunction  with  Mr.  Willis,  he  reestablished 
"  The  Mirror"  in  1843,  and  he  is  now  associated  with  that  popular  author  in 
conducting  "  The  Home  Joiu-nal."  In  1827,  his  play,  in  five  acts,  entitled  "  Brier 
Clifll',  a  tale  of  the  American  Revolution,"  was  brought  out  by  Mr.  Wallack, 
and  acted  forty  nights  successively.  So  great  was  its  popularity,  that  it  was 
played  at  four  theaters  in  New  York  on  the  same  evening,  to  fuU  houses,  and 
yielded  its  author  a  profit  of  three  thousand  five  hundred  dollars.  A  cornplote 
collection  of  his  "  Poetical  Works"  appeeu-ed  in  1852.  Several  of  Morris's  sf)ng8 
are  nearly  faultless.  Their  style  is  chaste,  and  their  tone  simple,  entire,  and 
glowing.  Mr.  N.  P.  Willis,  the  associate  of  General  Morris  for  more  than  twenty 
yejirs,  in  one  of  his  letters  gives  the  following  estimate  of  his  literary  ability  : 

"  MoRuiB  ia  the  best  known  poet  of  the  country,  by  acclamation,  not  by  criti- 


Prairie  (pii' r!).—» Turmoil  rar'mail).-^'C&re.— ♦  Wint 


A    GOLDEN    COPPKKSMITH.  99 

cisni.  He  is  just  what  poets  would  be  if  they  sang,  Hke  birds,  without  criticism ; 
mid  it  is  a  peculiarity  of  his  fame,  tliat  it  seems  as  regardless  of  criticism  as  a 
bird  in  the  air.  Notiiiug  can  stop  a  song  of  his.  It  is  very  easy  to  say  that  they 
are  easy  to  do.  They  have  a  momentum,  somehow,  that  it  is  difficult  for  others 
to  give,  and  tliat  si)eeds  them  to  the  far  goal  of  popularity,— the  best  proof  con- 
sisting in  the  fact  that  he  can,  at  any  moment,  get  fifty  dollars  for  a  song  un- 
read, when  the  whole  remainder  of  the  American  Parnassus  could  not  sell  one 
to  the  same  buyer  for  a  shilling.  It  may,  or  may  not,  be  one  secret  of  his  popu- 
'arity,  but  it  is  the  truth— that  Morris's  heart  is  at  the  level  of  most  other  people's, 
iud  his  poetry  flows  out  by  that  door.  He  stands  breast-higii  in  the  common 
nream  of  sympathy,  and  the  fine  oil  of  his  poetic  feeling  goes  from  him  upon  an 
element  it  is  its  nature  to  float  upon,  and  which  carries  it  safe  to  other  bosoms, 
with  little  need  of  deep-diving  or  high-flymg.  His  sentiments  are  simple,  hon- 
est, truthful,  and  familizw ;  his  language  is  pure  and  eminently  musical,  and  he 
is  prodigally  full  of  the  poetry  of  every-day  feeling.  These  are  days  when  poets 
try  experiments;  and  while  others  succeed  by  taking  the  world's  breath  away 
with  fliglits  and  plunges,  3Iorris  uses  his  feet  to  walk  quietly  with  nature. 
Ninety-nme  people  in  a  hundred,  taken  as  they  come  in  the  census,  would  find 
more  to  admire  in  Morris's  songs  than  in  the  writings  of  any  other  American 
poet ;  and  that  is  a  parish  in  the  poetical  episcopate  well  worthy  a  wise  man's 
nurture  and  prizing. 


13.  A  Golden  Coppersmith. 

BASIL  G AVRILOFF  MARINE,  a  Russian  crown-slave,  and  by 
trade  a  coppersmith,  was,  at  the  beginning  of  March,  return- 
ing to  St.  Petersburg  from  visiting  his  family  at  his  native  village. 
He  arrived  at  Mos'cow  on  the  night  of  the  eleventh,  wifli  ten  of 
his  companions ;  and  as  the  railway  train  was  already  gone,  they 
were  obliged  to  pass  the  night  there,  and  remain  till  three  the 
next  afternoon.  "The  villagers  are  curious,"  Marine  himself 
relates,  "  and  as  we  had  never  been  at  Moscow  before,  we  de- 
termined to  see  all  the  curiosities  of  that  ancient  town.  We 
entered  the  Cathedral  of  the  Assumption,  and  kissed  all  its  holy 
relics.  We  ascended  to  the  top  of  the  belfry  of  d'lvan-Veliky, 
and  then  proceeded  to  the  Bird-market.  Here  we  heard  that  a 
terrible  fire  was  raging — that  the  Great  Theater  was  burning. 
As  it  was  only  noon,  we  determined  to  be  spectators,  and  has- 
tened to  the  spot." 

2.  They  arrived  just  as  the  fire  was  at  its  height ;  the  theater 
burnt  from  the  interior,  and  the  flames  spread  rapidly,  bursting 
fi-om  the  roof  and  the  windows  in  savage  fury.  At  the  time  the 
fire  broke  out,  three  workmen  were  engaged  at  the  top  of  the 
building:  it  gained  upon  them  so  fast,  they  had  only  tin.e  from 


100  NATIONAI.   FIFTH    READER. 

a  window  to  reach  the  roof;  when  they  frantically  rushed  about 
without  hope  of  escape,  surrounded  by  the  flames,  which  each 
moment  gained  upon  them.  Two  of  them  in  wild  despair 
threw  themselves  from  the  roof,  and  were  killed  on  the  pave- 
ment below. 

3.  The  third  remained;  and,  suffocating  with  the  smoke, 
screamed  for  assistance  in  a  manner  that  struck  agony  in  the 
hearts  of  all  who  heard  him.  His  death  seemed  inevitable. 
There  was  not  a  ladder  of  sufficient  length  to  reach  the  roof  of 
the  building,  and  the  miserable  man  had  the  alternative  of  per- 
ishing by  the  flames  or  leaping  down,  as  his  comrades  had  done. 
But  even  in  this  extremity  his  confidence  did  not  forsake  him, 
and  he  sought  refuge  on  that  side  where  the  wind  blew  the 
flames  away  from  him.  Marine  and  his  companions  all  this 
time  were  spectators  of  the  scene.  "  I  held  my  tongue,"  said 
Marine,  "  but  my  heart  beat  painfully,  and  I  asked  myself  how  I 
could  save  this  poor  soul." 

4.  "  Companions,"  cried  the  brave  fellow,  suddenly,  "  wait  for 
me  here,  while  I  try  and  save  that  man."  His  comrades  looked 
at  him  wifli  surprise,  but  without  dissuading  him  from  his  pur- 
pose. "  God  be  with  you,"  said  they,  "  for  it  is  a  good  deed  you 
are  about  to  do."  Without  losing  another  moment.  Marine  ap- 
proached the  authorities  present,  and  solicited  permission  to  try 
and  rescue  the  man  from  the  frightful  death  which  menaced  him. 
Permission  obtained,  he  took  off"  his  cap  and  sheepskin  coat,  and 
confided  them  to  the  care  of  the  police.  Accomyaniel  by  his 
brother,  and  provided  with  a  stout  cord,  he  rushed  to  a  ladder 
that  was  placed  against  the  wail,  but  which  was  very  far  from 
reaching  the  roof.  Marine  made  the  sign  of  the  Cross,  and  be- 
gan to  ascend.  When  he  reached  the  summit,  he  fastened  the 
cord  around  his  waist,  and,  once  more  devoutly  crossing  himself, 
began  to  climb  one  of  the  pipes  that  led  from  the  roof. 

5.  The  crowd  below,  breathless  wi&  astonishment  and  fear, 
eagerly  watched  each  movement.  Around  him  the  flames  were 
playing  with  intense  fury ;  and  above  the  terrible  noise  of  the 
falling  timbers  were  heard  the  fearful  shrieks  of  the  unfortunate 
aian ;  who,  though  he  saw  assistance  coming  to  him,  dreaded  it 
might  be  too  late.  Nothing  daunted,  Marine  continued  his  per- 
ilous ascent.'     "  It  was  cold,"  said  he,' "and  there  was  a  terrible 


A   GOLDEM    COPPERSMITH.  101 

wind,  but  y§t  I  felt  it  not ;  for,  from  the  moment  I  determined 
upon  trying  to  save  the  fellow,  my  heart  was  on  fire,  and  I  was 
like  a  furnao.e."  His  bur<iing  hands  kept  continually  sticking  to 
the  frozen  pipes,  which  somewhat  retarded  his  progress  ;  but 
still  he  courageously  continued  his  way.  "The  pipe  cracked,'' 
said  he ;  "  it  was  no  longer  firm — this  dear  pipe ;  but  happily  1 
ai-rived  at  the  cornice,  where  there  was  foot-room." 

6.  His  brother,  who  had  remained  all  this  time  on  the  ladder, 
had  made  a  hook  fast  to  one  end  of  the  cord.  Marine  passed  it 
to  the  man  on  the  roof^  and  desired  him  to  fasten  it  somehow 
securely ;  this  he  did  by  fixing  it  round  one  of  the  ornaments  ot 
the  cornice.  Marine  doubled  it,  to  make  it  ni.  re  secure,  and 
then  made  him  slide  down  the  pipe,  holding  ile  cord  in  his 
hand,  and  his  knees  firmly  round  the  pipe — himself  giving  the 
example.  At  the  moment  Marine  reached  the  ladder,  and  the 
man  he  had  so  nobly  preserved  was  seen  to  glide  down  in  safety, 
a  remarkable  movement  was  manifested  by  the  crowd — a  move- 
ment truly  Russian — all  heads  were  simulta'neously  uncovered, 
and  all  hands  made  the  sign  of  the  Cross. 

7.  When  Marine  reached  the  ground,  the  man  was  already 
half-way  down  the  ladder,  and  out  of  all  danger.  "  I  had  hardly 
reached  the  ground,"  relates  Marine,  "when  a  gentleman,  in  a 
cloak  and  military  casque,  approached  me,  and  gave  me  twenty- 
five  silver  rubles."'  A  great  number  of  others  surrounded  him, 
and  each  gave  him  according  to  his  means — some  ten  kopecks' 
silver,  others  a  ruble,  and  some  only  copper.  "Thanks,  brave 
man !"  was  cried  on  all  sides ;  "  you  are  a  courageous  and  good 
Christian  ;  and  may  God  long  grant  you  health,  and  bless  you  !'' 

8.  "  What  becnme  of  the  man  I  rescued,"  said  Marine,  "  I  do 
not  know;  but  that  is  not  my  aff'air.  Thanks  to  God,  he  is 
saved.  A  gentleman — an  aid-de-camp^ — came -to  me,  gave  me 
a  ticket,  and  took  me  in  his  sledge  to  the  office  of  the  Chan- 
cellerie,  where  he  wrote  down  all  that  had  taken  place."  During 
this  time  Marine  did  not  lose  his  presence  of  mind ;  he  was  only 
anxious  about  one  thing — that  the  railway  should  not  leave  with- 

*  Ruble  (r5'  bl),  a  Russian  coin  about  the  value  of  seventy-five  cents. 
— "  K6'  peck,  a  Russian  coin  worth  about  a  cent. — '  Aid-de-camp  (id'  e 
king),  an  attendant  on  a  high  military  officer  to  convey  his  orders. 


102  NATioNAr,  FiPTH  ri«:a.der. 

out  him.  At  three  o'clock  he  was  in  the  wagon ;  and,  on  Friday 
the  thirteenth,  he  arrived  at  his  destination,  where  he  was  waited 
for  by  his  master,  Monsieur'  Flottoflf.    * 

9.  He  requested  permission  for  one  day's  leave,  to  visit  his 
aunt,**  who  kept  a  small  shop  in  the  Vassili  Ostroff,  which  was 
readily  granted ;  when,  leaving  her  to  return  home,  he  was  as- 
tonished at  being  called  to  the  house  of  the  Grand  Master  of  the 
Police,  who  accompanied  him  to  the  palace.  The  courage  o? 
which  he  had  so  lately  given  so  strong  a  proof,  had  been 
brought  to  the  knowledge  of  the  Emperor,  who  desired  to  see 
him.  Never  had  he  thought,  even  in  his  wildest  dreams,  that 
such  an  honor  would  be  accorded  to  him,  a  simple  man  of  the 
people. 

10.  The  Emperor  received  Marine  in  his  cabinet,  and,  with 
the  greatest  kindness,  said,  "  Marine,  I  thank  thee  for  the  good 
and  great  action  thou  hast  performed ;  but  I  wish  to  hear  from 
thy  own  mouth  how,  with  God's  assistance,  thou  didst  it."  Ma- 
rine related  the  adventure  to  him  in  his  own  simple  manner, 
and  when  he  had  finished,  the  Czar,  who  had  listened  to  him 
with  the  greatest  attention,  embraced  him,  and  said  :  "  My  son, 
may  God  bless  you !  and  remember,  if  you  ever  stand  in  need  oi 
my  assistance,  come  to  me  and  it  shall  be  accorded  you."  The 
Emperor  then  presented  him  with  a  medal  and  one  hundred  and 
fifty  silver  rubles.  Marine  left  the  Emperor's  presence  a  happy 
man. 


"^  14.  The  Hermit  of  Niagara. 

ABOUT  fifteen  years  since,  in  the  glow  of  early  summer,  a 
young  stranger,  of  pleasing  countenance  and  person,  made 
his  appearance  at  Niag'ara.  It  was  at  first  conjectured  tliat  he 
might  be  an  artist,  as  a  large  portfolio,  wifh  books  and  musical 
instruments,  were  observed  among  his  baggage.  He  was  deeply 
unpressed  by  the  majesty  and  sublimity  of  the  cataract  and  its 
surrounding  scenery,  and  expressed  an  intention  to  remain  a 
week,  that  he  might  examine  it  accurately.  But  the  fascination 
which  all  minds  of  sensibility  feel  in  the  presence  of  that  glorioua 

'Monsieur  (most-^r').  Sir;  Mr. — 'Aunt  {hit). 


THE    HERMIT   OF   NIAGAKA.  103 

work  of  the  Creator,  grew  strongly  upon  him,  and  he  was  heard 
to  say,  that  six  weeks  were  inadequate  to  become  acquainted 
with  its  outlines. 

2.  At  the  end  of  that  period,  he  was  still  unable  to  tear  him- 
self away,  and  desired  to  "build  there  a  tabernacle,"  that  he 
might  b5th  indulge  in  his  love  of  solitary  musings,  and  of  na- 
ture's sublimity.  He  applied  for  a  spot  upon  the  island  of  the 
"Three  Sisters,"  where  he  might  construct  a  cottage  after  his 
own  model,  which  comprised,  among  other  peculiarities,  isola- 
tion,* by  means  of  a  drawbridge.  Circumstances  forbidding  a 
compliance  wi6i  his  request,  he  took  up  his  residence  in  an  old 
house  upon  Iris  Island,  which  he  rendered  as  comfortable  as  the 
state  of  the  case  would  admit.  Here  he  continued  about  twenty 
months,  until  the  intrusion  of  a  family  interrupted  his  recluse 
habits.  He  then  quietly  withdrew,  and  reared  for  himself  a  less 
commodious  shelter,  near  Prospect  Point.  His  simple  and  fa- 
vorite fare  of  bread  and  milk  was  readily  purchased,  and  when- 
ever he  required  other  food,  he  preferred  to  prepare  it  with  his 
own  hands. 

3.  When  bleak  winter  came,  a  cheerful  fire  of  wood  blazed 
upon  his  hearth,^  and  by  his  evening  lamp  he  beguiled  the  hours 
wifli  the  perusal  of  books  in  various  languages,  and  with  sweet 
music.  It  was  almost  surprising  to  hear,  in  such  depth  of  soli- 
tude, the  long-drawn,  thrilling  tones  of  the  viol,  or  the  softest 
melodies  of  the  flute,  gushing  forth  from  that  low-browed  hut, 
or  the  guitar',  breathing  out  so  lightly  amid  the  rush  and  thun- 
der of  the  never-slumbering  torrent. 

4.  Yet,  though  the  world  of  letters  was  familiar  to  his  mind, 
and  the  living  world  to  his  observation, — for  he  had  traveled 
widely,  both  in  his  native  Europe  and  the  East, — he  sought  not 
association  wi6i  mankind,  to  unfold  or  to  increase  his  stores  of 
knowledge.  Those  who  had  lieard  him  converse,  spoke  with 
surprise  and  admiration  of  his  colloquiaP  powers,  his  command* 
of  language,  and  the  spirit  of  eloquence  that  flowed  from  his  lipr. 
But  he  seldom,  and  sparingly,  admitted  this  intercourse,  studi- 
ously avoiding  society,  though  there  seemed  in  his  nature  noth- 


*  Isoli'tion,  situated  like  an  island  ;  separation  from  every  thing, - 
•  lldlrth. — *  Colloquial  (kol  16'  kwe  al),  conversational. — *  Com  mind' 


104  NATIONAL   FIFfH    READER. 

ing  of  moroseness  or  misanthropy.  On  the  contrai-y  he  showed 
kindness  to  even  the  humblest  animiil.  Birds  :.nstinctively 
learned  it,  and  freely  entered  his  dwelling,  to  receive  fi'om  hia 
hand?  crumbs  or  seeds. 

5.  But  the  absorbing  delight  of  his  existence  was  communion 
wifh  the  mighty  Niagara.  Here,  at  every  hour  of  the  day  oi 
night,  he  might  be  seen,  a  fervent  worshiper.  At  gray  dawn 
he  went  to  visit  it  in  its  fleecy  vail ;  at  high  noon  he  banqueted 
on  the  full  splendor  of  its  glory ;  beneafh  the  soft  tinting  of  the 
lanar  bow,  he  lingered,  looking  for  the  angel's  wing  whose  pen- 
cil had  painted  it ;  and  at  solemn  midnight,  he  knelt,  soul-sub- 
dued, as  on  the  footstool  of  Jehovah.  Neither  storms,  nor  the 
piercing  cold  of  winter,  prevented  his  visits  to  this  great  temple 
of  his  adoration. 

6.  When  the  frozen  mists,  gathering  upon  the  lofty  trees, 
seemed  to  have  transmuted'  them  to  columns  of  alal  iister,^  when 
every  branch,^  and  shrub,  and  spray,  glittering  with  transparent* 
ice,  waved  in  the  sunbeam  its  coronet  of  diamonds,  he  gazed, 
unconscious  of  the  keen  atmosphere,  charmed  and  chained  by 
the  rainbow-cinctured  cataract.  His  feet  had  worn  a  beaten 
path  from  his  cottage  thither.  There  was,  at  that  time,  an  ex- 
tension of  the  Terrapin  Bridge,  by  a  single  shaft*  of  timber,  car- 
ried out  ten  feet  over  the  fathomless  abyss,  where  it  hung  trem- 
ulously, guarded  only  by  a  rnde  parapet.  To  this  point  he  6ft«u' 
passed  and  repassed,  amid  the  darkness  of  night.  He  even  took 
pleasure  in  grasping  it  with  his  hands,  and  thus  suspending  him- 
self over  the  awful  gulf;  so  much  had  his  morbid  enthusiasm 
learned  to  feel,  and  even  to  revel  amid  the  terribly  sublime. 

7.  Among  his  favorite  daily  gratifications  was  that  of  bathing. 
The  few  who  in'terested  themselves  in  his  welfare  supposed  that 
he  pursued  it  to  excess,  and  protracted  it  after  the  severity  of 
the  weather  rendered  it  hazardous  to  health.  He  scooped  out, 
and  arranged  for  himself,  a  secluded  and  romantic  bath,'  between 

*  Trans  mute  ,  change  from  one  nature  or  substance  to  another. — 
•Arab3,8ter,  a  compact  variety  of  sulphate  of  lime  or  gypsum,  of  fine 
texture,  and  usually  white  and  semi-pellucid,  but  sometimes  yellow, 
red,  or  gray.  It  is  carved  into  vases,  mantel  ornaments,  &c.— '  Br&nch. 
— ^*  Trans  p§,r'  ent,  transmitting  rays  of  light ;  clear  ;  ptrvious  to  light. 
--0  Sh&ft— •  Often  (6f  fn) —■'  Bitb 


THE    HEliMIT    OF    NIAGAKA.  105 

Moss  and  Iris  islands.     Afterward,  he  formed  the  habit  of  bath 
ing  below  the  principal  fall.     One  bright,  but  rather  chill  day, 
in  the  month  of  June,  1831,  a  man  employed  about  the  ferry 
saw  him  go  into  the  water,  and,  a  long  time  after,  observed  his 
clothes  to  be  still  lying  upon  the  bank. 

8.  Inqui'ry  was  made.  The  anxiety  was  but  too  well  founded 
The  poor  hermit  had  indeed  taken  his  last  bath.  It  was  sup 
posed  that  cramp  might  have  been  induced  by  the  unwonted' 
;iiill  of  the  atmosphere  or  water.  Still,  the  body  was  not  found; 
the  depth  and  torce  of  the  current  just  below  being  exceedingly 
great.  In  the  course  of  their  search,  they  passed  onward  to  the 
whirlpool.  There,  amid  those  boiling  eddies,  was  the  pallid 
corpse,  making  fearful  and  rapid  gyrations^  upon  the  face  of  the 
black  waters.  At  some  point  of  suction,  it  suddenly  plunged 
and  disappeared.  Again  emerging,  it  was  fearful  to  see  it  leap 
half  its  length  above  the  flood,  and  with  a  face  so  deadly  pale, 
play  among  the  tossing  billows ;  then  float  motionless,  as  if  ex- 
hausted ;  and  anon,  returning  to  the  encounter,  spring,  struggle, 
and  contend,  like  a  maniac  battling  with  mortal  foes. 

9.  It  was  strangely  painful  to  think  that  he  was  not  permitted 
to  find  a  grave,  even  beneath  the  waters  he  had  loved ;  that  all 
the  gentleness  and  charity  of  his  nature  should  be  changed  by 
death  to  the  fury  of  a  madman ;  and  that  the  king  of  terrors,  who 
brings  repose  to  the  despot  and  the  man  of  blood,  should  teach 
warfare  to  him  w^ho  had  ever  worn  the  meekness  of  the  Iamb. 
For  days  and  nights  this  terrible  purgatory^  was  prolonged.  It 
was  on  the  21st  of  June  that,  after  many  eflforts,  they  were  ena- 
bled to  bear  the  weary  dead  back  to  his  desolate  cottage. 

10.  There  they  found  his  faithful  dog  guarding  the  door. 
Heavily  must  the  long  period  have  worn  away,  while  he  watched 
for  his  only  friend,  and  wondered  why  he  delayed  his  coming. 
He  scrutinized  the  approaching  group  suspiciously,  and  would 
not  willingly  have  given  them  admittance,  save  that  a  low,  stifled 
wail  at  length  announced  his  intuitive  knowledge  of  the  master, 
whom  the  work  of  death  had  eflfectually  disguised  from  the  eye& 
of  men. 

*  Unwonted  (unwunt'ed).—  ' Gyration  (jlri'shun),  a  whirling,  cir- 
cular motion. — 'Purgatory  (plr' ga  to  li),  a  place  of  temporary  punisb- 
meut,  or  purification. 


106  NATIONAL    FIFfH   READER. 

11.  Ill  liis  cliair  lay  the  guitar',  whose  melody  was  probably 
the  last  that  his  ear  heard  on  earth.  There  were,  also,  his  flute 
and  viohn,  his  portfolio  and  books,  scattered  and  open,  as  if  re 
cently  used.  On  the  spread  table  was  the  untasted  meal  for 
noon,  which  he  had  prepared  against  his  return  from  that  bath 
which  had  proved  so  fatal.  It  was  a  touching  sight, — the  dead 
hermit  mourned  by  his  humble  retainers,  the  poor  animals  who 
loved  him,  and  ready  to  be  laid  by  stranger  hands  in  a  foreign  grave. 

12.  So  fell  this  singular  and  accomplished  being,  at  the  early 
age  of  twenty-eight.  Learned  in  the  languages,  in  the  arts  and 
sciences,  improved  by  extensive  travel,  gifted  with  personal 
beauty  and  a  feeling  heart,  the  motives  for  this  estrangement 
from  his  kind  are  still  enveloped  in  mystery.  It  was,  however, 
known  that  he  was  a  native  of  England,  where  his  father  was  a 
clergyman ;  that  he  received  from  thence  ample  remittances  for 
his  comfort;  and  that  his  name  was  Francis  Abbot  These  facte 
had  been  previously  ascertained;  but  no  written  papers  were 
found  in  his  cell,  to  throw  additional  light  upon  the  obscurity  in 
which  he  had  so  effectually  wrapped  the  history  of  his  pilgrimage 

Mrs.  Sigourney. 

Mrs.  L.  H.  Sigourney  was  born  at  Norwicli,  Connecticut,  1791.  Her  maidsu 
name  was  Lydia  Huntley.  She  was  married  to  Cliarles  Sigourney  in  1819.  She 
is  one  of  the  most  voluminous  of  American  female  writers,  and  equally  happy  in 
prose  and  verse.  Her  rare  and  highly  cultivated  intellect,  her  fine  sensibilities, 
and  her  noble  heart,  have  enabled  her,  in  all  her  works,  to  pleat!  successfully 
the  cause  of  humanity  and  religion.  n^ 


15.  The  Song  of  the  Shirt. 

1    linTH  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

» V    With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 

A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread — 

Stitch!  stitch!  stitch! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt,' 
And  still,  with  a  yoice  of  dQl'orous'  pitch, 
She  sang  the  "  Song  of  the  Shirt !"' 

Dirt  (dflrt).— •  D&l'  o  rous.  doleful ;  dismal ;  sorrowful  — •  Shirt  (shM 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SHIRT.  107 

2.  "Work!'  work!  work! 

While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof ! 
And  work — work — work ! 

Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof! 
It's  oh !  to  be  a  slave 

Along  wifli  the  barbarous  Turk,* 
Where  woman  has  never  a  soul  to  save, 

If  THIS  is  Christian  work ! 

8,  "Work — work — work! 

Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim ! 
Work — work — work! 

Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim ! 
Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam. 
Till  over  the  buttons  I  fall  asleep, 

And  sew^  them  on  in  my  dream ! 

6.  "  Oh !  men  wifli  sisters  dear ! 

Oh !  men  with  mothers  and  wives ! 
It  is  not  linen  you're  wearing  out. 

But  human  creatures'  lives ! 
Stitch — stitch — stitch  ! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 
Sewing  at  once,  with  a  double  thread, 

A  SHROUD  as  well  as  a  shirt ! 

5.  "  But  why  do  I  talk  of  death. 

That  phantom  of  grisly  bone  ? 
I  hardly  fear  his  terrible  shape, 

It  seems  so  like  my  own — 
It  seems  so  like  my  own. 

Because  of  the  fasf  I  keep : 
O  God !  that  bread  should  be  so  dear, 

And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap ! 

6.  "Work — work — work! 

My  labor  never  flags ; 
And  what  are  its  wages  ?     A  bed  of  straw. 


•  Work  (w5rk).-  *  Turk  (tSrk).~»  Sew  (s6).— *  FSst. 


108  NATIONAL    FIKTH    READICK. 

A  crust  of  bread — and  rags : 
A  shatter'd  roof — and  this  naked  floor — 

A  table — a  broken  chair' — 
And  a  wall  so  blank,  my  shadow  I  thank 

For  sometinies  falling  there  !^ 

7   "  Work — work — work ! 

From  weary  chime  to  chime ; 
Work — work — work ! 

As  prisoners  work  for  crime ! 
Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 
Till  the  heart  is  sick  and  the  brain  benumbed. 

As  well  as  the  weary  hand ! 

8.  "Work — work — work, 

In  the  dull  December  light ; 
And  work — work — work ! 

When  the  weather  is  warm  and  bright  r 
While  underncafh  the  eaves 

The  brooding  swallows  cling, 
As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs, 

And  twit  ine  with  the  Spring. 

9.  "Oh!  but  to  breathe  the  breath 

Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet; 
Wifli  the  sky  above  my  head. 

And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet : 
For  only  one  short  hour 

To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel, 
Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  want, 

And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal ! 

10.  "  Oh !  but  for  one  short  hour ! 

A  respite^  however  brief! 
No  blessed  leisure  for  love  or  hope, 

But  only  time  for  grief! 
A  little  weeping  would  ease  my  heart — 

But  in  their  briny  bed 


'  Ch&ir.— '  There  (thir). 


BROKEN    HEARTS.  109 

My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 
Hinders  needle  and  thread !" 

11.  With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread ; 
Stitch — stitch — stitch ! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt ; 
And  still  with  a  voice  of  dol'orous  pitch — 
Would  that  its  tone  could  reach  the  rich ! — 

She  sung  this  "  Song  of  the  Shirt !" 

Thomas  Hc<.d. 

TnoMiS  Hood,  humorist  and  poet,  was  bom  at  London,  in  1798.  The  best  in- 
cident of  his  early  boyhood  was  his  instruction  by  a  schoolmaster  who  appre- 
ciated his  talents,  and  was  so  interested  in  teaching  as  to  render  it  impossible 
not  to  interest  his  pupil.  At  this  period  he  earned  his  first  fee— a  few  guineas— 
by  revising  for  the  press  a  new  edition  of  "  Paul  and  Virginia."  In  his  fifteenth 
year,  after  receiving  a  miscellaneous  education,  he  was  placed  in  the  counting- 
house  of  a  Russian  merchant ;  but,  soon  after  learned  the  art  of  engraving.  In 
182],  having  already  written  I'ugitive  papers  for  i)eriodicals,  he  became  sub- 
editor of  the  "  London  Magazine,"  a  position  whicli  at  once  introduced  him  to 
the  best  literary  society  of  the  time.  "  Odes  and  Addresses"  soon  after  appear- 
evl.  "  Whims  and  Oddities,"  "  National  Tales,"  "  Tylney  Hall,"  a  novel,  and 
"  The  Plea  of  the  Midsimimer  Fairies,"  followed.  In  these,  the  humorous  fac- 
ulty not  only  predominated,  but  expressed  itself  with  a  freshness,  originality, 
and  power,  which  the  poetical  element  could  not  claim.  There  was,  however, 
much  true  poetry  in  the  verse,  and  much  sound  sense  and  keen  observation  in 
the  prose  of  these  works.  After  publishing  several  annuals,  he  started  a  maga- 
zine in  his  own  name.  Though  aided  by  men  of  reputation  and  authority,  this 
work,  which  he  conducted  with  surprising  energy,  was  mainly  sustained  by  his 
own  intellectual  activity.  At  this  time,  confined  to  a  sick-bed,  from  which  he 
never  rose,  in  his  anxiety  to  provide  for  his  wife  and  children,  he  composed 
those  poems,  too  few  in  number,  but  immortal  in  the  English  language,  such  as 
the  "  Song  of  the  Shirt,"  the  "  Bridge  of  Sighs,"  and  the  "  Song  of  the  Laborer  " 
His  death  occurred  on  the  3d  of  May,  1845. 


16.  Broken  Hearts. 

MAN  is  the  creature  of  interest  and  ambition.  His  nature 
leads  him  forth  into  the  struggle  and  bustle  of  the  world. 
Love  is  but  the  embellishment  of  his  early  life,  or  a  song  piped 
in  the  intervals  of  the  acts.     He  seeks  for  fame,  for  fortune,  for 


110  NATIONAL    FIKTH    READER. 

space  in  the  world's^  thought,  and  dominion  over  his  fellow-men. 
But  a  woman's  whole  life  is  a  history  of  the .  affections.  The 
heart  is  her  world:  it  is  there  her  ambition  strives  for  'mpire; 
it  is  there  her  avarice  seeks  for  hidden  treasures.  She  sends 
forth  her  sympathies  on  adventure;  she  embarks  her  whole 
soul  in  the  traffic  of  affection ;  and  if  shipwrecked,  her  case  is 
hapeless — for  it  is  a  bankruptcy  of  the  heart. 

2.  To  a  man,  the  disappointment  of  love  may  occasion  soni? 
bitter  pangs :  it  wounds  some  feelings  of  tenderness — it  blasts* 
some  prospects  of  felicity ;  but  he  is  an  active  being — he  may 
dissipate  his  thoughts  in  the  whirP  of  varied  occupation,  or  may 
plunge  into  the  tide  of  pleasure ;  or,  if  the  scene  of  disappoint- 
ment be  too  full  of  painful  associations,  he  can  shift,  his  abode  at 
will,  and  taking  as  it  were  the  wings  of  the  morning,  can  "  fly  to 
the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth,*  and  be  at  rest." 

3.  But  woman's  is  comparatively  a  fixed,  a  secluded,  and  a 
meditative  life.  She  is  more  the  companion  of  her  own  thoughts 
and  feelings;  and  if  they  are  turned  to  ministers  of  sorrow, 
where*  shall  she  look  for  consolation  ?  Her  lot  is  to  be  wooed 
and  won ;  and  if  unhappy  in  her  love,  her  heart  is  like  some 
fortress  that  has  been  captured,  and  sacked,  and  ab?ndoned, 
and  left  desolate. 

4.  How  many  bright  eyes  grow  dim — how  many  soft  cheeks 
grow  pale — how  many  lovely  forms  fade  away  into  the  tomb, 
and  none^  can  tell  the  cause  that  blighted  their  loveliness !  As 
the  dove  will  clasp''  its  wings  to  its  side,  and  cover  and  conceal 
the  arrow  that  is  preying  on  its  vitals,  so  it  is  the  nature  oi 
woman  to  hide  from  the  world  the  pangs  of  wounded  affection. 

5.  The  love  of  a  delicate  female  is  always  shy  and  silent 
Even  when  fortunate,  she  scarcely^  breathes  it  to  herself;  but 
when  otherwise,  she  buries  it  in  the  recesses  of  her  bosom,  and 
there  lets  it  cower  and  brood  among  the  ruins^  of  her  peace. 
With  her  the  desire  of  the  heart  has  failed.  The  great  charm 
of  existence  is  at  an  end.  She  neglects  all  the  cheerful  exei- 
cises  which  gladden  the  spirits,  quicken  the  pulses,  and  send  the 
tide  of  life  in  healthful  ciirrents  through  the  veins.    Her  rest  is 

*  World  (w5rld).— » Bl&sts.— '  Whirl  (whSrl).— *  Earth  (5rth).— » Where 
(wh&r). — •  None  (nfiu).    -'  Cl&sp. — '  S(  irce'  ly. — "  Ruins  (r&'  inz^ 


BKOKEN    HEAKTS.  Ill 

broken — the  sweet  refreshment  of  sleep  is  poisoned  by  melan- 
choly dreams — "dry  sorrow  drinks  her  blood,"  until  her  en- 
feebled frame  sinks  under  the  slightest  external  injury. 

6.  Look  for  her,  after  a  little  while,  and  you  will  find  friend- 
ship weeping  over  her  untimely  grave,  and  wondering  that  one 
who  but  lately  glowed  with  all  the  radiance  of  health  and 
beauty,  should  so  speedily  be  brought  down  to  "  darkness  and 
the  worm."  You  will  be  told  of  some  wintry  chill,  some  casual 
indisposition  that  laid  her  low ; — but  no  one  knows  of  the  mental 
malady  that  previously  sapped  her  strength,  and  made  her  so 
easy  a  prey  to  the  spoiler. 

7.  She  is  like  some  tender  tree,  the  pride  and  beauty  of  the 
grove ;  graceful  in  its  form,  bright  in  its  foliage,  but  with  the 
worm^  preying  at  its  heart.  We  find  it  suddenly  withering 
when  it  should  be  most  fresh  and  luxuriant.'  We  see  it  droop- 
ing its  branches*  to  the  earth^  and  shedding  leaf  by  leaf;  until, 
wasted  and  perished  away,  it  falls  even  in  the  stillness  of  the 
forest ;  and  as  we  muse  over  the  beautiful  ruin,  we  strive  in 
vain  to  recollect  the  blast  or  thunderbolt  that  could  have  smitten 
it  with  decay. 

8.  I  have  seen  many  instances  of  women  running  to  waste 
and  self-neglect,  and  disappearing  gradually  from  the  earth, 
almost  as  if  they  had  been  exhaled  to  heaven ;  and  have  repeat- 
edly fancied  that  I  could  trace  their  death  through  the  various 
declensions  of  consumption,  cold,  debility,  languor,  melancholy, 
until  I  reached  the  first  symptom'  of  disappointed  love.  But  an 
instance  of  the  kind  was  lately  told  to  me :  the  circumstances 
are  well  known  in  the  country  where  they  happened,  and  I  shall 
but  give  them  in  the  manner  they  were  related. 


17.   Broken  Hearts — concluded. 

EVERY  one  must  recollect  the  tragical  story  of  young  Emmett,* 
the  Irish  patriot :  it  was  too  touching  to  be  soon  forgotten. 

'  Worm  (w^rm) .  — '  Luxuriant  (lug  zu'  re  ant).  — '  Branch.  -  -  *  Earth 
(5rth). — 'Egbert  Emmett,  the  Irish  patriot,  was  born  iu  1780  He  wa? 
executed  on  the  20th  of  September.  1803. 


112  NATIONAL    FWVn    KEADKK. 

"During  the  troubles  in  Ireland  he  was  tried,  condemned,  and 
executed,  on  a  charge  of  treason.'  His  fate  made  a  deep  impres- 
sion on  public  sympathy.  He  was  so  young — so  intelligent — so 
generous — so  brave — so  every  thing  that  we  are  apt  to  like  in  a 
young  man.  His  conduct  under  trial,  too,  was  so  lofty  and  in  • 
trepid!^  The  noble  indignation  wifli  which  he  repelled  the 
charge  of  treason  against  his  country — the  eloquent  vindication* 
of  his  name — and  his  pathetic  appeal  to  posterity,  in  the  hopeless 
hour  of  condemnation — all  these  entered  deeply  into  every  gen 
erous  bosom,  and  even  his  enemies  lamented  the  stem  policy 
that  dictated  his  execution. 

2.  But  there  was  one  heart,  whose  anguish  it  would  be  impos- 
sible to  describe.  In  happier  days  and  fairer  fortunes,  he  ha4 
won  the  affections  of  a  beautiful  and  in'teresting  girl,  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  late  celebrated  Irish  barrister.''  She  loved  him  wifh  the 
disin'terested  fervor  of  a  woman's  first  and  early  love.  When 
every  worldly  maxim  arrayed  itself  against  him ;  when  blasted 
in  fortune,  and  disgrace  and  danger  darkened  around  his  name, 
she  loved  him  the  more  ardently  for  his  very  sufferings.  If,  then, 
his  fate  could  awaken  the  sympathy  even  of  his  foes,  what  must 
have  been  the  agony  of  her,  whose  whole  soul  was  occupied  by 
his  image  ?  Let  those  tell  who  have  had  the  portals  of  the  tomb 
suddenly  closed  between  them  and  the  being  they  most  loved 
Dn  earth — who  have  sat  at  its  threshold,  as  one  shut  out  in  a 
:x)ld  and  lonely  world,  from  whence  all  that  was  most  lovely  and 
joving  had  departed. 

3.  But  then  the  horrors  of  such  a  grave !  so  frightful,  so  dis- 
honored! There  was  nothing*  for  memory  to  dwell  on  that 
could  soothe  the  pang  of  separation — none  of  those  tender 
though  melancholy  circumstances  that  endear  the  parting  scene 
— nothing  to  melt  sorrow  into  those  blessed  tears,  sent,  like  the 
dews  of  heaven,  to  revive  the  heart  in  the  parting  hour  of  anguish. 

*  Treason  (tri'  zn),  the  offence  of  attempting  to  overthrow  the  govern- 
ment of  the  State  to  which  the  offender  owes  allegiance,  or  of  betraying 
the  State  into  the  hands  of  a  foreign  power. — '  In  tr&p'  id,  undaunted  ; 
fearless  ;  brave, — '  Vin  di  ck'  tion,  justification  against  censure,  objec- 
tions, or  accusations;  defence  by  proof,  force,  or  otherwise.— *  John 
Philpot  Curran,  celebrated  for  his  eloquence,  wit,  and  sarcasm,  bora 
near  Cork,  1750,  and  died  1817.— 'Nothing  (nMh'ing). 


BROKEN    HEARTS.  313 

4.  To  render  her  widowed  situation  more  desolate,  she  had 
incurred  her  father's  displeasure  by  her  unfortunate  attachment, 
and  was  an  exile  from  the  paternal  roof.  But  could  the  sympa- 
thy and  kind  offices  of  friends  have  reached  a  spirit  so  shocked 
and  driven  in  by  horror,  she  would  have  experienced  no  want  of 
consolation,  for  the  Irish  are  a  people  of  quick  and  generous  sen- 
sibilities. The  most  delicate  and  cherishing  attentions  were  paid 
her  by  families  of  wealth  and  distinction.  She  was  led  into  so- 
ciety, and  they  tried  by  all  kinds  of  occupation  and  amusement 
to  dissipate  her  grief,  and  wean  her  from  the  tragical  story  of 
her  love. 

5.  But  it  was  all  in  vain.  There  are  some  strokes  of  calamity 
that  scath  and  scorch  the  soul — that  penetrate  to  the  vital  seat 
of  happiness,  and  blast'  it,  never  again  to  put  forth  bud  or  blos- 
som. She  never  objected  to  frequent  the  haunts^  of  pleasure,  but 
she  was  as  much  alone  there  as  in  the  depths  of  solitude.  She 
walked  about  in  a  sad  reverie,  apparently  unconscious  of  the 
world  around  her.  She  carried  with  her  an  inward  woe  that 
mocked  at  all  the  blandishments  of  friendship,  and  "  heeded  not 
the  song  of  the  charmer,  charm  he  never  so  wisely." 

6.  The  person^  who  told  me  her  story  had  seen  her  at  a  mas 
querade.''  There  can  be  no  exhibition  of  far-gone  wretchedness 
more  striking  and  painful  than  to  meet  it  in  such  a  scene.  To 
find  it  wandering  like  a  specter,  lonely  and  joyless,  where  all 
around  is  gay — to  see  it  dressed  out  in  the  trappings  of  mirth, 
and  looking  so  wan  and  woe-begone,  as  if  it  had  tried  in  vain  to 
cheat  the  poor  heart  into  a  momentary  forgetfulness  of  sorrow. 
After  strolling  through  the  splendid  rooms  and  giddy  crowd  wifh 
an  air  of  utter  abstraction,  she  sat  herself  down  on  the  steps  of 
an  orchestra,*  and  looking  about  for  s«me  time  with  a  vacant  air 
that  showed  her  insensibility  to  the  gairish^  scene,  she  began, 
with  the  capriciousness  of  a  sickly  heart,  to  warble  a  little  plain- 
tive air.  She  had  an  ex'quisite  voice ;  but  on  this  occasion  it 
was  so  simple,  so  touching,  it  breathed  forth  such  a  soul  of 

*  Bldst.— '  Haunts  (hantz). — '  P^r'  son. — *  Masquerade  (mds  ker  dd'), 
an  evening  assembly  of  persons  wearing  masks,  and  amusing  themselves 
with  dancing,  conversation,  and  other  diversions. — *  Orchestra  (S,i'kea- 
tra),  a  place  appropriated  to  musicians,  or  to  the  performers  in  a  con 
cert ;  a  band  of  musicians. — •  Gkh'  ish,  gaudy  :  showy  ;  very  fine. 

8 


114  NATION  AI     FlI^TH    READKK. 

wretchedness,  that  she  drew  a  crowd  mute  and  silent  aroun«l 
her,  and  melted  every  one  into  tears. 

1,  The  story  of  one  so  true  and  tender  could  not  but  excite 
great  interest  in  a  country  remarkable  for  enthusiasm.  It  com- 
pletely won  the  heart  of  a  brave  officer,  who  paid  his  addresses 
to  her,  and  thought  that  one  so  true  to  the  dead  could  not  but 
prove  affectionate  to  the  living.  She  declined  his  attentions,  for 
1  er  thoughts  were  irrev'ocably  engrossed  by  the  memory  of  her 
ibrmer  lover.  He,  however,  persisted  in  his  suit.  He  solicited 
liOt  her  tenderness,  but  her  esteem.  He  was  assisted  by  hei 
conviction  of  his  worth,  and  her  sense  of  her  own  destitute  and 
dependent  situation,  for  she  was  existing  on  the  kindness  of 
friends.  In  a  word,  he  at  length  succeeded  in  gaining  her  hand, 
though  with  the  solemn  assurance  that  her  heart  was  unaltera- 
bly another's. 

8.  He  took  her  wifh  him  to  Sicily,  hoping  that  a  change  of 
scene  might  wear  out  the  remembrance  of  early  woes.  She  was 
an  amiable  and  exemplary  wife,  and  made  an  effort  to  be  a  happy 
one ;  but  nothing  could  cure  the  silent  and  devouring  melancholy 
that  had  entered  into  her  very  soul.  She  wasted  away  in  a  slow 
but  hopeless  decline,  and  at  length  sunk  into  the  grave,  the  vic- 
tim of  a  broken  heart.  Washington  Irving. 

Washington  Irving,  wlio  has  delighted  the  readers  of  the  EngHsh  language 
for  more  than  half  a  century,  was  bom  in  the  city  of  New  York,  on  the  third  of 
April,  1783.  His  father,  a  respectable  merchant,  originally  from  Scotland,  died 
while  he  w£is  quite  young,  and  his  education  was  superintended  by  his  elder 
brothers,  some  of  whom  have  gained  considerable  reputation  for  acquirements 
and  literature.  His  first  essays  were  a  series  of  letters  under  the  signature  of 
Jonathan  Oldstyle,  Gent.,  published  in  the  Morning  Chronicle,  of  which  one  of 
his  brothers  was  editor,  in  1802.  In  1806,  after  his  return  from  a  European  tour, 
he  joined  Mr.  Paulding  m  writing  "  Salmagundi,"  a  whimsical  miscellany, 
which  captivated  the  town  and  decided  the  fortunes  of  its  authors.  Soon  after, 
he  produced  "The  History  of  New  York,  by  Diedrick  Knickerbocker,"  the  most 
original  and  humorous  work  of  the  age.  After  the  appearance  of  this  work,  he 
wrote  but  little  for  several  years,  having  engaged  with  his  brothers  in  foreign 
commerce ;  but,  fortunately  for  American  literature,  while  in  England,  in  18i:>, 
a  reverse  of  fortune  changed  the  whole  tenor  of  his  life,  causing  him  to  resort  lo 
literature,  which  had  hitherto  been  his  amusement,  for  solace  and  support.  The 
first  fruit  of  this  change  was  "The  Sketch  Book,"  which  was  published  in  New 
York  jmd  London  ii.  1819  and  1820,  and  which  met  a  success  never  before  re- 
ceived by  a  book  of  unconnected  tales  and  essays.  Mr,  Irving  subsequently 
published  "  Bracebridge  Hall,"  the  "  History  of  tlie  liife  and  Voyages  of  Colum- 
bus," "The  Alhambra,"  and  many  other  works  that  we  have  not  room  to  enu- 
morato     While  in  England,  he  received  one  of  the  g»»ld  medals  of  (illy  guinean 


LINKS    RELATING    TO    CUKRAN's    DAUGHTER.  115 

In  value,  provided  by  George  the  Fourth,  for  eminence  in  historical  composition. 
In  183-2,  after  an  absence  of  seventeen  years,  he  returned  to  the  United  states 
H>«  style  has  the  ease  and  purity,  and  more  than  the  grace  and  polish  of  Frank 
lip  His  carefully  selected  words,  his  variously  constructed  periods,  his  remark- 
ab-e  elegance,  sustained  sweetness,  and  distinct  and  delicate  painting,  place  liim 
w  he  very  front  rank  of  the  masters  of  our  language. 


18.  Lines  relating  to  Cueran's  Daught^er. 

1.  QHE  is  far  from  the  land  where  her  young  hero  sleeps, 
^  And  lovers  around  her  are  sighing ; 

But  coldly  she  turns  from  their  gaze,  and  weeps, 
For  her  heart  in  his  grave  is  lying. 

2.  She  sings  the  wild  song  of  her  dear  native  plains, 

Every  note  which  he  loved  awaking — 
Ah !  little  they  think,  who  delight  in  her  strains, 
How  the  heart  of  the  minstrel  is  breaking. 

3.  He  had  lived  for  his  love — for  his  country  he  died ; 

They  were  all  that  to  life  had  entwined  him — 
Nor  soon  shall  the  tears  of  his  country  be  dried, 
Nor  long  will  his  love  stay  behind  him. 

4.  Oh !  make  her  a  grave  where  the  sunbeams  rest, 

When  they  promise  a  glon'ous  morrow ; 
They'll  shine  o'er  her  sleep  like  a  smile  from  the  west, 
From  her  own  loved  island  of  sorrow.       Thomas  Mooke. 

Thomas  Moore,  the  poet,  was  bom  in  1780,  in  Dublin,  where  his  father  car 
ried  on  business  as  a  wine-merchant.  He  showed  from  boyhood  an  imaginative 
and  musical  turn ;  and  various  circumstances  combined  in  impressing  him  early 
with  that  deep  sense  of  the  wrongs  and  sufferings  of  Ireland  to  which  his  {X)etry 
owes  so  many  of  its  most  powerful  touches.  He  was  educated  at  Trinity  College, 
where  he  took  his  degree  in  1798,  after  which  he  went  to  London  to  keep  his 
terms  for  the  beir.  Poetry  however  had  taken  possession  of  his  mind ;  and  hie 
gay  translation  of  Anaceon  was  published  in  1800.  In  1804,  having  obtained  a 
registarship  in  Bermuda,  he  went  out  to  discharge  the  duties  of  the  office.  It 
proved  much  less  lucrative  tl.an  he  expected  ;  and  in  a  few  montlis  he  returned 
home,  from  which  time  his  course  of  life  was  very  uneventful.  In  1811  he  mar- 
ried Miss  Dyke,  an  amiable,  attractive,  and  domestic  lady.  He  soon  after  estab- 
lished himself  permanently  at  Sloperton,  near  Devizes,  visiting  London,  how- 
ever, frequently,  and  making  other  excursions.  In  1835  he  received  from  gov- 
•inmient  a  pension  of  jCSOO  a  year ;  and  in  1B50,  when  his  health  was  completely 
."(foken.  Mrs.  Moore  obtained  a  pension  of  a  hundred  pounds.     He  died  in  the 


116  NATIONAL    FIPTII     READIiai. 

beginning  of  1852.  Of  his  Herious  poems,  "  Irish  Melodies"  and  "  Lalla  Rookh 
best  supiwrt  his  tame,  Many  pieces  of  the  former  are  exquisite  for  grace  of  die- 
tion,  for  beauty,  and  for  a  refined  and  ideal  kind  of  patlios.  Tiie  latter  evinces 
great  skill  and  care  of  execution,  with  marvelous  richness  of  fancy,  and  singular 
correctness  of  costume,  and  establishes  his  claim  to  an  important  place  among 
tlie  great  painters  of  romantic  narrative.  Moore's  political  satires,  perhajis,  show 
his  genius  in  a  more  brilliant  light  than  any  of  his  other  works.  Of  his  prose 
writings,  t}:e  most  noted  and  worthy  is  the  gorgeous  romance  -t  *The  Epi- 
curean," which  appeared  in  1827. 


19.  Thanatopsis. 

1.  rpO  him,  who,  in  the  love  of  nature  holds 

J-   Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 

A  various  language ;  for  his  gayer  hours, 

She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile, 

And  eloquence  of  beauty,  and  she  glides 

Into  his  darker  musings  with  a  mild. 

And  gentle  sympathy,  that  steals  away 

Thoir  sharpness,  ere  he  is  aware. 

2.  When  thoughts 
Of  the  last  bitter  hour,  come  like  a  blight 
Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 

Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 

And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house, 

Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at  heart; 

Go  forth  into  tho  open  sky,  and  list 

To  nature's  teaching,  while,  from  all  aroimd, 

Comes  a  still  voice  : 

3.  "  Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee, 
The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more. 

In  all  his  course ;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 
Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  wifh  many  tears, 
Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean  shall  exist 
Thy  image.     Earth,  that  nourish'd  thee,  shall  claim 


*  Tliin  a  t&p'  sis,  this  Greek  word  means  a  view  or  contemplation  of 
death. 


THANATOPSIS.  117 

Thy  growth,  to  ha  resolved  to  earth  again ; 
And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surren  lering  up 
Thine  indi\'idual  being,  shalt  thou  go, 
To  mix  forever  with  the  elements. 
To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock. 
And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 
Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.     The  oak 
Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mold. 

4    "  Yet  not,  to  thy  eternal  resting-place, 

Shalt  thou  retire,  alone — nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world,  with  kings, 
The  poweiful  of  the  earth,  the  wise,  the  good, 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre. 

6.  "The  hills, 

Rock-ribb'd,  and  ancient  as  the  sun ;  the  vales, 

Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between ; 

The  venerable  woods ;  rivers  that  move 

In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 

That  make  the  meadow  green ;  and,  pour'd  round  all. 

Old  ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste, 

Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 

Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.     The  golden  sun, 

The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 

Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death. 

Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages. 

6.  "  All  that  tread 

The  globe,  are  but  a  handful,  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom.     Take  the  winors 

o 

.  Of  morning,  and  the  Barcan  desert  pierce, 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods. 
Where  rolls  the  Or'egon,  and  hears  no  sound, 
Save  its  own  dashings — yet  the  dead  are  there ; 
And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 
In  their  last  sleep  :  the  dead  reign  there  alone. 


118  NATIONAL    FIFTH    EEADEK. 

7.  "  So  shalt  thou  rest ;  and  what,  if  thou  shalt  fall. 
Unnoticed  by  the  living,  and  no  friend 

Take  note  of  thy  departure  ?     All  that  breathe 
Will  sliare  thy  destiny.     The  gay  will  laugh, 
When  thou  art  gone ;  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on ;  and  each  one,  as  before,  will  chase 
His  favorite  phantom ;  yet,  all  these  shall  leave 
Their  mirth,  and  their  enjoyments,  and  shall  come 
And  make  their  bed  wifh  thee. 

8.  "  As  the  I6ng  train 
Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men. 

The  youth,  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he,  who  goes 
In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron,  and  maid, 
The  bow'd  wifh  age,  the  infant,  in  the  smiles 
And  beauty  of  its  innocent  age  cut  oflf — 
Shall,  one  by  one,  be  gather'd  to  thy  side. 
By  those  who,  in  their  turn,  shall  follow  them. 

9.  "  So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes,  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan  that  moves 

To  the  pale  realms  of  shade,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go,  not  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustain'd  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave. 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams !" 

W.  C.  Bryant. 

WiLUAM  CuLLEN  Bryant  was  boHi  ill  Cunimington,  Massachusetts,  on  the 
third  day  of  November,  1794.  lie  gave  indications  of  superior  genius  at  a  very 
early  age ;  and  fortunately  received  the  most  careful  and  judicious  instruction 
from  his  father,  a  learned  and  eminent  physician.  At  ten  years  of  age,  he 
made  very  creditable  translations  from  some  of  the  Latin  poets,  which  were 
printed  in  a  newspaper  at  Northampton.  At  thirteen,  he  wrote  "  The  Embargo," 
a  political  satire,  which  was  never  surpassed  by  any  poet  of  that  age.  Bryant 
entered  an  advanced  class  of  Williams  College  in  the  sixteenth  year  of  his  age, 
in  which  he  soon  became  distinguished  for  his  attainments  generally,  and  espe- 
cially for  his  proficiency  in  classical  learning.  He  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in 
1815,  and  commenced  the  practice  of  his  profession  in  the  village  of  Great  Bar- 
rington,  where  he  weis  soon  after  married.  lie  wrote  the  above  noble  poem— 
"  Thaiiatopsis"— when  but  little  more  than  eighteen  years  of  age.  In  1821  he 
delivered  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society  of  Harvard  College  his  lons:est 


EUTHANASIA.  119 

poem,  "  Tlie  Ages,"  which  is  in  the  stanza  of  Spenser,  and  in  its  versification 
is  not  inferior  to  "  The  Faerie  Queene."  "  To  a  Waterfowl,"  "  Inscription  for 
an  entrance  to  a  Wood,"  and  several  other  pieces  of  nearly  equal  merit  were 
likewise  written  during  his  residence  at  Great  Harrington.  After  passmg  ten 
years  in  successful  practice  in  the  courts,  he  determined  to  abandon  the  uncon- 
genied  business  of  a  lawyer,  and  devote  his  attention  more  exclusively  to  Utera- 
ture.  With  this  view,  he  removed  to  the  city  of  New  York  in  1825,  and,  witli  a 
friend,  established  "The  New  York  Review  and  Athenaeum  Magazine,"  in 
which  he  published  several  of  his  finest  poems.  In  1826  he  assumed  the  chiel 
lirection  of  the  "  Evening  Post,"  one  of  the  best  gazettes  in  this  country,  with 
tviiich  he  has  ever  since  been  connected.  In  the  summer  of  1834,  Mr.  Bryant 
visited  Europe,  with  his  family,  where  he  remained  till  1836,  when  the  illness  of 
his  partner  and  associate,  the  late  William  Leggett,  caused  his  hasty  return. 
A  splendid  edition  of  his  complete  poetical  works  was  published  in  1846.  He  is 
a  favorite  with  rnen  of  every  variety  of  tastes.  He  has  passages  of  profound  re- 
flection for  the  philosopher,  and  others  of  such  simp'e  beauty  as  to  please  the 
most  illiterate.  He  has  few  equals  in  grace  and  power  of  expression.  Every 
line  has  compactness,  precision,  and  elegance,  and  flows  with  its  fellows  in  ex- 
quisite harmony.  Mr.  Bryant  is  the  poet  of  nature.  He  places  before  us,  in 
pictures  warmly  colored  by  the  hues  of  the  imagination,  the  old  and  shadowy 
forests,  the  sea-like  preuries,  the  lakes,  rivers,  and  mountains  of  our  own  coun- 
try. To  the  thoughtful  critic  every  thing  in  his  verse  belongs  to  America,  and 
is  as  different  from  what  marks  the  poetry  of  England  as  it  is  from  that  which 
meet  distinguishes  the  poetry  of  Franco  ur  Germany. 


20.  Euthanasia.' 

1.  lyrETIIINKS,  when  on  the  languid  eye 
-lTJL  Life's  autumn  scenes  grow  dim, — 
When  evening's  shadows  veil  the  sky, 

And  pleasure's  siren^  hymn 
Grows  fainter  on  the  tuneless  ear, 
Like  echoes  from  another  sphere, 

Or  dream  of  seraphim,' — 
It  were  not  sad  to  cast^  away 
This  dull  and  cumbrous  load  of  clay. 

2.  It  were  not  sad  to  feel  the  heart 

Grow  passionless  and  cold ; 


'Euthanasia  (yu than S,'ze a),  an  easy  or  happy  death. — 'Si' ran,  in 
ancient  mythology,  a  goddess  who  enticed  men  into  her  power  by  the 
charms  of  music,  and  devoured  them.  Hence,  in  modem  use,  an  enticing 
woman ;  a  female  rendered  dangerous  by  her  enticements. — '  SSr'  a  phim, 
angels  of  the  highest  order. — *  CSst. 


120  NATIONAL    FIFfH    READER. 

To  feel  those  longings  to  depart 

That  cheer'd  the  good  of  old ; 
To  clasp'  the  faith  which  looks  on  high, 
Which  fires  the  Christian's  dying  eye, 

And  makes  the  curtain-fold, 
That  falls  upon  his  wasting  breast, 
The  door  that  leads  to  endless  rest. 

3.  It  were  not  lonely  thus  to  lie 

On  that  triumphant  bed. 
Till  the  pure  spirit  mounts  on  high, 

By  white-wing'd  seraphs  led : 
Where  glories  earth^  may  never  know 
O'er  "  many  mansions"  lingering  glow, 

In  peerless'  luster  shed ; 
It  were  not  lonely  thus  to  soar, 
Where  sin  and  grief  can  sting  no  more. 

4.  And,  though  the  way  to  such  a  goal 

Lies  through  the  clouded  tomb, 
If  on  the  free,  unfetter'd  soul 

There  rest  no  stains  of  gloom. 
How  should  its  aspirations  rise 
Far  through  the  blue,  unpillar'd  skies, 

Thp  to  its  final  home ! 
Beyond  the  journeyings  of  the  sun, 
Where''  streams  of  living  waters  run. 

W.  G.  Clark. 

Willis  Gaylord  Clark,  a  journalist,  poet,  and  miscellaneous  writer,  was  bom 
»t  Otisco,  an  agricultural  town  in  Central  New  York,  in  the  year  1810.  Stimu- 
lated by  the  splendid  scenery  outspread  on  every  side  around  him,  he  began  to 
feel  the  poetic  impulse  at  an  early  age;  and,  in  numbers  most  musical,  painted 
the  beauties  of  nature  with  singular  fidelity.  As  he  grew  older,  a  solemnity  and 
gentle  sadness  of  thought  pervaded  his  verse,  and  evinced  his  desire  to  gather 
from  the  scenes  and  images  its  reflected  lessons  of  morality.  When  about 
twenty  years  of  age,  he  repaired  to  Philadelphia,  where  lie  commenced  a 
weekly  miscellany,  which  was  abandoned  after  a  brief  period.  He  then 
assumed,  with  the  Reverend  Doctor  Brajvtlev,  the  charge  of  tlie  "  Columbian 
Star,"  a  religious  and  literary  periodical,  of  high  character,  in  which  he  printed 
many  brief  poems  of  considerable  merit.    Some  years  later,  he  took  charge  of 


Cl&sp. — ' Earth  (5rth), — 'P^cr'less.  matchless;  having  no  equal.—- 


Where  (wh&r) 


btLLECT    PASSAGES    IN    VEESK  121 

the  •  Philadelphia  Gazette,"  one  of  the  oldest  and  most  respectable  journals  in 
Pennsylvania,  of  which  he  ultimately  became  proprietor,  and  from  that  time 
until  his  death  continued  to  conduct  it  In  1836  he  married  Anne  Povntell 
Caldclkugii,  the  daughter  of  one  of  tlie  wealthiest  citi.:ens  of  Philadelphia,  and 
a  woman  of  great  personal  beauty,  rare  accomplishments,  and  affectionate  dis- 
position, who  soon  after  died  of  consumption,  leaving  her  husband  a  prey  to  the 
deepest  melancholy.  From  this  time  his  health  gradually  declined,  tliough  he 
continued  to  write  for  his  paper  until  the  last  day  of  his  hfe,  the  twelfth  of  June, 
1841.  His  metrical  writings,  which  are  pervaded  by  a  gentle  rehgious  melan- 
choly, are  all  distinguished  for  a  graceful  and  elegant  diction,  thoughts  morally 
and  poetically  beautiful,  and  chaste  and  appropriate  imagery.  His  prose  writ- 
ings, on  the  other  hand,  were  usually  marked  by  passages  of  irresistible  humor 
and  wit.  His  perception  of  the  ludicrous  was  acute,  and  his  jests  and  "  cranks 
and  WEuiton  wiles"  evinced  the  fullness  of  his  powers  and  the  benevolence  of  his 
feelings. 


21.   Select  Passages  in  Yeese. 

1. 

Succession  of  Human  Beings. 

Like  leaves  on  trees  the  life  of  man  is  found, 

Now  green  in  youth,  now  withering  on  the  ground ; 

Another  race  the  following  spring  supplies, 

They  fall  successive,  and  successive  rise : 

So  generations  in  their  course  decay ; 

So  flourish  these,  when  those  have  pass'd  away. 

II. 
Death  op  the  Young  and  Fair. — Anon. 

She  died  in  beauty,  like  a  rose  blown  from  its  parent  stem ; 
She  died  in  beauty,  like  a  pearl  dropp'd  from  some  diadem ; 
She  died  in  beauty,  like  a  lay  along  a  moonlit  lake ; 
She  died  in  beauty,  like  the  song  of  birds  amid  the  brake ; 
She  died  in  beauty,  like  the  snow  on  flowers  dissolved  away ; 
She  died  in  beauty,  like  a  star  I5st  on  the  brow  of  day ; — 
She  lives  in  glory,  like  Night's  gems  set  round  the  silver  :«ioon ; 
She  lives  in  glory,  like  the  sun  amid  the  blue  of  June 

III. 
A  Lady  Drowned. — Procter. 

Is  she  dead  ? . . . 
Why  so  shall  I  be, — ere  these  autumn  blaete 
6 


122  NATION AI.    FIFTH    BEADEB. 

Have  blown  on  the  beard  of  Winter.     Is  she  dead  ? 
Ay,  she  is  dead, — quite  dead !     The  wild  Sea  kiss'd  hei 
Wifli  its  cold  white  lips,  and  then — put  her  to  sleep : 
She  has  a  sand  pillow,  and  a  water  sheet, 
And  never  turns  her  head  or  knows  'tis  morning ! 

IV. 

The  Life  op  Man. — Beaumont. 
Like  to  the  falling  of  a  star. 
Or  as  the  flights  of  eagles  are. 
Or  like  the  fresh  spring's  gaudy  hue, 
Or  silver  drops  of  morning  dew. 
Or  like  a  wind  that  chafes  the  flood, 
Or  bubbles  which  on  water  stood : 
E'en  such  is  man,  whose  borrow'd  light 
Is  straight  call'd  in  and  paid  to-night : 
The  wind  blows  out,  the  bubble  dies ; 
llie  spring  entomb'd  in  autumn  lies ; 
The  dew's  dried  up,  the  star  is  shot. 
The  flight  is  past,  and  man  forgot. 

V. 

Coronach.* — Scott. 
He  is  gSne  on  the  mountain,  he  is  lost  to  the  forest. 
Like  a  summer-dried  fountain,  when  our  need  was  the  sorest ; 
The  fount,  reappearing,  from  the  rain-drops  shall  borrow, 
But  to  us  comes  no  cheering,  to  Duncan  no  morrow ! 
The  hand  of  the  reaper  takes  the  ears  that  are  hoary, 
But  the  voice  of  the  ^veepcr  wails  manhood  in  glory ; 
T^e  autumn  winds  rushing  waft  the  leaves  that  are  serest, 
But  our  flower  was  in  flushing  when  blighting  was  nearest. — 
Fleet  foot  on  the  correi,^  sage  counsel  in  cumber,' 
Red  hand  in  the  foray ,^  how  sound  is  thy  slumber ! 
Like  the  dew  on  the  mountain,  like  the  foam  on  the  river, 
Like  the  bubble  on  the  fountain,  thou  art  g(5ne,  and  forever  1 


*  Coronach  (kor'onak),  a  song  of  lamentation;  a  lament. — •  Corr«.»i 
(kfir'ti),  the  side  of  a  hill  where  game  usually  lies. — '  \*i;ii' bor,  ptr- 
plexity  ;  distress. — *  ¥b'  rky  a  sudden  pillaging  incursion  in  peace  ot 
war. 


SELECTED    EXTRACTS.  123 

VI. 

Immortality. — R.  H.  Dana. 

"  Man,  thou  shalt  never  die !"     Celestial  voi^ee 
Hymn  it  unto  our  souls  :  according  harps, 
By  angel  fingers  touch'd,  when  the  mild  stars 
Of  morning  sang  together,  sound  forth  still 
The  song  of  our  great  immortality ! 
Thick-clustering  orbs  on  this  our  fair  domain, 
The  tall,  dark  mountains,  and  the  deep-toned  seas, 
Join  in  this  solemn,  universal  song. 
Oh  listen,  ye  our  spirits !  drink  it  in 
From  all  the  air  I     'Tis  in  the  gentle  moonlight ; 
'Tis  floating  mid  day's  setting  glories ;  night, 
Wrapp'd  in  her  sable  robe,  with  silent  step. 
Comes  to  our  bed,  and  breathes  it  in  our  ears. 
Night  and  the  dawn,  bright  day  and  thoughtful  eve, 
All  time,  all  bounds,  the  limitless  expanse, 
As  one  vast  mystic'  instrument,  are  touch'd 
By  an  unseen,  living  hand,  and  conscious  chords 
Quiver  with  joy  in  this  great  jubilee  :^ 
The  dying  hear  it ;  and,  as  sounds  of  earth 
Grow  dull  and  distant,  wake  their  passing  souls 
To  mingle  in  this  heavenly  harmony. 


22.  Selected  Extracts. 

THE  man  who  carries  a  lantern  in  a  dark  night,  can  have 
friends  all  around  him,  walking  safely  by  the  help  of  its  rays, 
and  he  be  not  defrauded.  So  he  who  has  the  God-given  light 
of  hope  in  his  breast,  can  help  on  many  others  in  this  world's 
darkness,  not  to  his  own  loss,  but  to  his  precious  gain. 

2.  As  a  rose  after  a  shower,  bent  down  by  tear-drops,  waits 
for  a  passing  breeze  or  a  kindly  hand  to  shake  its  branches, 


*  Mys'  tic,  obscure  ;  involving  some  secret  meaning. — '  Jh'  bi  lee,  a 
great  festival  among  the  Jews  every  fiftieth  year,  when  the  bondsmen 
were  all  set  free  and  lands  restored  to  their  former  owners. 


124  NATIONAL    FlFl'H    KKADEB. 

that,  lightened,  it  may  stand  once  more  upon  i.s  stein, — so  one 
who  is  bowed  down  with  affliction  longs  for  a  friend  to  lift  him 
out  of  his  sorrow,  and  bid  him  once  more  rejoice.  Happy  is  the 
man  who  has  that  in  his  soul  w^hich  acts  upon  the  dejected  like 
April  airs  upon  violet  roots. 

3.  Hav:}  you  ever  seen  a  cactus  growing  ?  What  a  dry,  ugly, 
spiny  thing  it  is!  l>nt  suppose  your  gardener  takes  it  when 
just  sprouting  forth  with  buds,  and  lets  it  stand  a  week  or  two, 
and  then  brings  it  to  you,  and  lo !  it  is  a  blaze  of  light,  glorious 
above  all  flowers.  So  the  poor  and  lowly,  when  God's  time 
comes,  and  they  begin  to  stand  up  and  blossom,  how  beautiful 
they  will  be ! 

4.  The  sun  does  not  shine  for  a  few  trees  and  flowers,  but  for 
the  wide  world's  joy.  The  lonely  pine  upon  the  mountain-top 
waves  its  somber  boughs,  and  cries,  "  Thou  art  my  sun."  And 
the  little  meadow-violet  lifts  its  cup  of  blue,  and  w^hispers  wifti 
its  perfumed  breath,  "  Thou  art  my  sun."  And  the  grain  in  a 
thousand  fields  rustles  in  the  wind,  and  makes  answer,  "  Thou 
art  my  sun."  And  so  God  sits  effulgent  in  heaven,  not  for  a  fa- 
vored few,  but  for  the  universe  of  life ;  and  there  is  no  creature 
so  poor  or  so  low  that  he  may  not  look  up  with  child-like  con- 
fidence and  say,  "  My  Father !  Thou  art  mine." 

5.  I  think  the  human  heart  is  like  an  artist's  studio.  You 
can  tell  what  the  artist  is  doing,  not  so  much  by  his  completed 
pictures,  for  they  are  mostly  scattered  at  once,  but  by  the  half- 
finished  sketches  and  designs  which  are  hanging  on  his  wall. 
And  so  you  can  tell  the  course  of  a  man's  life,  not  so  much  by 
his  well-defined  purposes,  as  by  the  half-formed  plans — the  faint 
day-dreams,  which  are  hung  in  all  the  chambers  of  his  heart. 

d.  Men  are  like  birds  that  build  their  nests  in  trees  that  hang 
over  rivers.  And  the  birds  sing  in  the  tree-top,  and  the  river 
sings  underneafli,  undermining  and  undermining,  and  in  the  mo- 
ment when  the  bird  thinks  not,  it  comes  crashing  down,  and  the 
nest  is  scattered,  and  all  goes  floating  down  the  flood.  If  we 
build  to  ambition,  we  are  like  men  who  build  before  the  track 
of  a  volcano's  eruption,  sure  to  be  overtaken  and  burnt  up  by  its 
hot  lava.  If  we  build  to  wealth,  we  are  as  those  who  build 
upon  the  ice.  The  spring  will  melt  our  foundations  from  un- 
der us. 


SELECTED   EXTRACTS.  125 

7.  Shall  we  build  to  earthly  affections?  If  we  can  not  trans- 
figure' those  whom  we  love — if  we  can  not  behold  the  eternal 
world  shining  through  the  faces  of  father  and  mother,  of  hus- 
band and  wife — if  we  can  not  behold  them  all  irradiated  with 
the  gloiy  of  the  supernaP  sphere,  it  were  not  best  to  build  for 
love.  Death  erects  his  batteries  right  over  against  our  homes, 
and  in  the  hour  when  we  think  not,  the  missile  flies  and  explodes, 
carrying  destruction  all  around. 

8.  I  think  it  is  a  sad  sight  to  look  at  one  of  the  receiving 
hulks  at  the  Navy  Yard.  To  think  that  that  was  the  ship  which 
once  went  so  fearlessly  across  the  ocean!  It  has  come  back  to 
be  anchored  in  the  quiet  bay,  and  to  roll  this  wny  and  that  with 
the  tide.  Yet  that  is  what  many  men  set  belui  e  them  as  the 
end  of  life — that  they  may  come  to  that  pass  where  they  may 
be  able  to  cast  out  an  anchor  this  way  and  an  anchor  that  way, 
and  never  move  again,  but  rock  lazily  with  the  tide — without 
a  sail — without  a  voyage — waiting  simply  for  decay  to  take  their 
timbers  apart.  And  this  is  what  men  call,  "  retiring  from  busi- 
ness'''— to  become  simply  an  empty  old  hulk. 

9.  We  are  beleaguered  by  Time,  and  parallel  after  parallel  is 
drawn  around  us,  and  then  a  change  is  made,  and  we  see  the 
enemy's  flag  waving  on  some  outpost.  And  as  the  sense  of 
hearing,  and  touch,  and  sight  fails,  and  a  man  finds  all  these 
marks  of  time  upon  him,  oh  woe !  if  he  has  no  Hereafter,  as  a 
final  citadel  into  which  to  retreat. 

10.  Would  that  I  could  break  this  Gospel  as  a  bread  of  life 
to  all  of  you !  My  best  presentations  of  it  to  you  are  so  incom- 
plete !  Sometimes,  when  I  am  alone,  I  have  such  sweet  and 
rapturous  visions  of  the  love  of  God  and  the  truths  of  His  word, 
that  I  think  if  I  could  speak  to  you  then,  I  should  move  your 
hearts.  I  am  like  a  child,  who,  walking  forth  some  sunny  sum- 
mer's morning,  sees  grass  and  flowers  all  shining  with  drops  of 
dew,  that  reflect  every  hue  of  the  rainbow.  "  Oh !"  he  cries, 
"  I'll  carry  these  beautiful  things  to  my  mother,"  and  eagerly 
shakes  them  oft'  into  his  little  palm.  But  the  charm  is  gone — 
they  are  no  more  water-pearls. 

Transfigure  (tr3,ns  ^g'  yer),  change  the  outward  form  or  appearanca 
— *  Su  pSr'  uai,  being  in  a  higher  region  or  phicc  ;  celestial  ;  heavenly. 


126  NATIONAL    FILTH     READH:R. 

11.  There  are  days  when  my  blood  flows  like  wino;  when  aU 
IS  ease  and  prosperity ;  when  the  sky  is  bkie,  and  the  birds  sing, 
and  flowers  blossom,  and  every  thing  speaks  to  me ;  and  my 
life  is  an  anthem,  walking  in  tune  and  tune;  and  then  this 
world's  joy  and  affection  suffice.  But  when  a  change  comes — 
when  I  am  weary  and  disappointed — when  the  skies  lower  into 
the  somber  night — when  there  is  no  song  of  bird,  and  the  per' 
fume  of  flowers  is  but  their  dying  breath  breathed  away — whei; 
all  is  sunsetting  and  autumn,  then  I  yearn  for  Him  who  sits  vviCb 
the  summer  of  love  in  His  soul,  and  know  that  all  earthly  affec- 
tion is  but  a  glow-worm  light  compared  to  that  which  blazes 
with  such  effulgence  in  the  heart  of  God. 

12.  I  think  that  in  the  life  to  come  my  heart  will  have  feel- 
ings like  God's.  The  little  bell  that  a  babe  can  hold  in  its  fin- 
gers may  strike  the  same  note  as  the  great  bell  of  Mos'cow.'  Its 
note  may  be  soft  as  a  bird's  whisper,  and  yet  it  is  the  same. 
And  so  God  may  have  a  feeling,  and  I,  standing  by  him,  shall 
have  the  same  feeling.  Where  he  loves,  I  shall  love.  All  the 
processes  of  the  Divine  mind  will  be  reflected  in  mine.  And 
there  will  be  this  companionship  with  him  to  eternity.  What 
else  can  be  the  meaning  of  those  expressions  that  all  we  have  is 
Christ's,  and  God  is  ours,  an(i  we  are  heirs  of  God?  To  inherit 
God — who  can  conceive  of  it  ?  It  is  the  growing  marvel,  and 
will  be  the  growing  wonder  of  eternity. 

13.  We  are  glad  that  there  is  a  bosom  of  God  to  which  we 
can  go  and  find  refuge.  As  prisoners  in  castles  look  out  of  their 
grated  windows  at  the  smiling  landscape,  where  the  sun  comes 
and  goes,  so  we  from  this  life,  as  from  dungeon  bars,  look  forth 
to  the  heavenly  land,  and  are  refreshed  wifti  sweet  visions  of 
the  home  that  shall  be  ours  when  we  are  free. 

Henry  Ward  Beecher.' 

'  M6s'  cbw,  a  famous  city  of  Russia,  formerly  capital  of  the  whole  Rus- 
sian Empire.  It  is  situated  four  hundred  miles  S.  E.  of  St.  Petersburg, 
with  which  it  is  connected  by  a  first-class  railroad.  The  stupendous 
bell  here  alluded  to,  called  Czar  Kolokol,  or  the  Monarch,  weighing: 
nearly  180  tons,  is  about  21^  feet  in  height,  and  22|  in  diameter.  A 
liuge  fragment  was  broken  from  it,  morQ  than  a  century  ago,  when  the 
tower  in  which  it  was  suspeaded  was  burned. — *  See  Biographical  Sketch, 
p.  71. 


FULLER'S    BIKD.  127 


23.   Fuller's  Blrd.^ 

1.  rpHE  wild-wing'd  creature,  clad  in  gore 
J-   (His  bloody  human  meal  being  o'er), 

Comes  down  to  the  water's  brink : 
'Tis  the  first  time  he  there  hath  gazed, 
And  straight  he  shrinks — alarm'd — amazed, 

And  dares^  not  drink. 

2.  "  Have  I  till  now,"  he  sadly  said, 

"  Prey'd  on  my  brother's  blood,  and  made 

His  flesh  my  meal  to-day  ?" — 
Once  more  he  glances^  in  the  brook, 
And  once  more  sees  his  victim's  look ; 

Then  turns*  away. 

3.  Wifh  such  sharp  pain  as  human  hearts 
May  feel,  the  drooping  thing  departs 

Unto  the  dark,  wild  wood ; 
And  there,  midst  briers  and  sheltering  weeds, 
He  hideth  his  remorse,  and  feeds 

No  more  on  blood. 

4.  And  in  that  weedy  brake  he  lies, 
And  pines,  and  pines,  until  he  dies ; 

And,  when  all's  o'er, 

Wliat  follows  ? — Naught !  his  brothers  slake 
Their  thirst*  in  blood  in  that  same  brake, 

Fierce  as  before ! 

5.  So  fable  flows ! — But  would  you  find 
Itg  moral  wrought  in  human  kind, 

Its  tale  made*  worse  f 


'  "I  have  read  of  a  bird,  which  hath  a  face  like,  and  yet  will  prey 
npop .  a  man  ;  who,  coming  to  the  water  to  drink,  and  finding  there  by 
reflcAtion  that  he  had  killed  one  like  himself,  pineth  away  by  degrees, 
and  never  afterward  enjoyeth  itself." — Fuller's  Worthies. — '  Dares  (d^rz). 
— » CHances  (glens'  ez).  —  *  Tu-ns  (tSrnz).  —  *  lliirst  ^herst).  —  •  Worse 
CwSib). 


I '2 8  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Turn  straight  to  Man^  and  in  his  fame 
And  forehead*  read  "  The  Harpyh''''^  name ; 

But  no  remorse  !  B.  W.  Procter. 

Brvan  Walter  Procter,  better  known  by  nis  assumed  name  of  Barry  Coru- 
wall,  IS  a  graceful  and  accomplished  writer,  and  a  true  poet.  "  If  it  be  the 
province  of  poetry  to  give  delight,"  says  Lord  Jeffrey,  "  this  author  should  laiil* 
very  high  among  the  poets."  He  is  a  genuine  i)oet  of  love.  There  is  an  intense 
and  passionate  beauty,  a  depth  of  affection,  in  liis  little  dramatic  poems,  whicl: 
appear  even  in  the  affectionate  triflings  of  his  gentle  characters.  He  is  chiefly 
noted,  however,  as  a  song-writer.  "The  fair  blossoms  of  his  genius,  though 
light  and  trembling  as  the  breeze,  spring  from  a  wide,  emd  deep,  and  robust 
stock,  which  will  sustain  far  taller  branches  without  being  exhausted." 


24.   The  Bakbakities  of  AV  ab. 

THE  first  great  obstacle  to  the  extinction  of  war,  is  the  way  m 
which  the  heart  of  man  is  carried  off  from  its  barbarities 
and  its  horrors  by  the  splendor  of  its  deceitful  accompaniments. 
There  is  a  feeling  of  the  sublime  in  contem'plating  the  shock  of 
armies,  just  as  there  is  in  contemplating  the  devouring  energy  of 
a  tempest ;  and  this  so  elevates  and  engrosses  the  whole  man, 
that  his  eye  is  blind  to  the  tears  of  bereaved  parents,  and  his  ear 
is  deaf  to  the  piteous  moan  of  the  dying,  and  the  shriek  of  their 
desolated  families. 

2.  There  is  a  gracefulness  in  the  picture  of  a  youthful  warrior, 
burning  for  distinction  on  the  field,  and  lured  by  this  generous 
aspiration  to  the  deepest  of  the  animated  throng,  where,  in  the 
fell  work  of  death,  the  opposing  sons  of  valor  struggle  for  a  re- 
membrance and  a  name ;  and  this  side  of  the  picture  is  so  much 
the  exclusive  object  of  our  regard,  as  to  disguise  from  our  view 
the  mangled  carcases  of  the  fallen,  and  the  writhing  agonies  of 
the  hundreds  and  the  hundreds  more  who  have  been  laid  on  the 
cold  ground,  where  they  are  left  to  languish  and  to  die. 

3.  There  no  eye  pities  them.    No  sister  is  there  to  weep  over 

*  Forehead  (f6r'  ed.) — '  HSr'  py,  in  antiquity,  the  harpies  were  fabulous 
winged  monsters,  ravenous  and  filthy,  having  the  face  of  a  woman  and 
the  body  of  a  vulture,  with  their  feet  and  fingers  armed  with  sharp 
claws.  They  were  three  in  number,  Aello,  Ocypete,  and  Celeiio.  The 
name  harpy  is  often  ap~  iied  to  an  extortioner,  a  plunderer,  oi  ravenous 
animals. 


THE    BARBARITIES    OF    WAR.  129 

them.  There  no  gentle  hand  is  present  to  ease  the  dying  pos- 
ture, or  bind  up  the  wounds  which,  in  the  maddening  fury  of  tin- 
combat,  have  been  given  and  received  by  the  children  of  oru- 
common  Father.  There  death  spreads  its  pale  ensigns  over  ev- 
ei'v  countenance,  and  when  night  comes  on,  and  darkness  arout;;! 
them,  how  many  a  despairing  wretch  must  take  up  with  tiic 
.bloody  field  as  the  untended  bed  of  his  last  sufierings,  without 
one  friend  to  bear  the  message  of  tenderness  to  his  distant  home, 
without  one  companion  to  close  his  eyes ! 

4.  I  avow  it.  On  every  side  of  me  I  see  causes  at  work  which 
go  to  spread  a  most  delusive  coloring  over  war,  and  to  remove 
its  shocking  barbarities  to  the  background  of  our  contempla'- 
tions  altogether.  I  see  it  in  the  history,  which  tells  me  of  the 
superb  appearance  of  the  troops,  and  the  brilliancy  of  their  suc- 
cessive charges.  I  see  it  in  the  poetry,  which  lends  the  magic 
of  its  numbers  to  the  narrative  of  blood,  and  transports  its  many 
admirers,  as  by  its  images,  and  its  figures,  and  its  nodding  plumes 
of  chivalry  it  throws  its  treacherous  embellishments  over  a  scene 
of  lesjalized  slaucrhter. 

5.  I  see  it  in  the  music,  which  represents  the  progress  of  the 
battle ;  and  where,  after  being  inspired  by  the  trumpet-notes  of 
preparation,  the  whole  beauty  and  tenderness  of  a  drawing-room 
are  seen  to  bend  over  the  sentimental  entertainment :  nor  do  I 
hear  the  utterance  of  a  single  sigh  to  interrupt  the  death-tones 
of  the  thickening  contest,  and  the  moans  of  the  wounded  men 
as  they  fade  away  upon  the  ear  and  sink  into  lifeless  silence. 
All,  all  goes  to  prove  what  strange  and  half-sighted  creatures  we 
are.  Were  it  not  so,  war  could  never  have  been  seen  in  any 
other  aspect  than  that  of  unmingled  hatefulness :  and  I  can  look 
to  nothing  but  to  the  progress  of  Christian  sentiment  upon  earth 
to  arrest  the  strong  current  of  its  popular  and  prevailing  par- 
tiality for  war. 

6  Then  only  will  an  imperious  sense  of  duty  lay  the  check  oJ 
severe  principle  on  all  the  subordinate  tastes  and  faculties  of  our 
nature.  Then  will  glory  be  reduced  to  its  right  estimate,  and 
the  wakeful  benevolence  of  the  Gospel,  chasing  away  every  spell, 
will  be  turned  by  the  treachery  of  no  delusion  whatever  from  ita 
sublime  enterprises  for  the  good  of  the  species.  Then  the  reign 
of  truth  and  quietness  will  be  ushered  into  the  world,  and  war, 


130      '  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

cruel,  atrocious,  unrelenting  war,  will  be  stripped  of  its  many  and 
its  bewildering  fascinations.  Thomas  CiiALMERa. 

Thomas  Chalmers,  D.  D.,  LL.  D.,  the  celebrated  puipit  orator  and  divine, 
was  bom  on  17th  JMarcii,  1780,  at  Anstruther,  iu  Fil'esliire,  Scotland,  of  res|)ecta- 
ble  and  pious,  thougli  humble,  parents.  He  was  entered  a  student  in  St. 
Andrews  College  at  the  early  age  of  twelve  ;  and  soon  gave  indications  of  tliat 
strong  predilection  for  the  physical  sciences  which  he  retained  through  life.  Up 
obtained  license  to  preach  in  connection  with  the  Established  Church  of  Scot 
land,  while  only  19,  on  the  express  ground  that  he  was  "  a  lad  of  pregnant  parts ;" 
though,  at  that  early  age,  he  considered  the  functions  of  the  sacred  office  to  Ite 
subordinate  to  scientific  pursuits.  By  long  personal  illness,  and  severe  donie.^tic 
bereavements,  he  was  brought  from  makmg  religion  a  secondary  concern  with 
him  to  regard  it  eis  a  subject  of  paramount  importance.  In  1815  he  took  charge 
of  the  Tron  Church  and  Parish,  Glasgow,  from  which  time  his  reputation  con- 
tinued to  advance,  mitil  the  sensation  producetl  by  his  preaching  surpassetl  all 
that  was  ever  known  or  heeird  of  in  the  annals  of  pulpit  eloquence.  In  1824  he 
became  professor  of  moral  philosophy  in  the  University  of  St.  Andrews ;  and  in 
1828  he  was  translated  to  the  chair  of  divinity  in  the  university  at  Edinburgh. 
Dr.  Chalmers  now  commenced  a  career  of  authorship,  by  which  he  still  further 
extended  his  reputation  as  a  divine.  The  most  flattering  honors  were  now 
heaped  upon  him ;  for  he  was  chosen  President  of  the  Royal  Society  of  Edin- 
burgh, created  Doctor  of  Laws  by  the  University  of  Oxford,  and  appointed  cor- 
responding member  of  the  Royal  Institute  of  France— a  compliment  which  no 
clergyman  in  Britain  had  ever  previously  enjoyed.  His  collected  works,  including 
Bermons,  theological  lectures,  <i;c.,  amount  to  25  volumes.    Died  May  30, 1847. 


A 


25.    BiNGEN   ON   THE   RhINE. 


SOLDIER  of  the  Legion  lay  dying  in  Algiers, 
There  was  lack  of  woman's  nursing,'  there  was  dearth'  of 
woman's  tears ; 
But  a  comrade  stood  beside  him,  while  his  life-blood  ebb'd  away, 
And  bent,  wifh  pitying  glances,^  to  hear  what  he  might  say. 
The  dying  soldier  falter'd,  as  he  took  that  comrade's  hand. 
And  he  said,  "  I  never  more  shall  see  my  own,  my  native  land  ; 
Take  a  message,  and  a  token,  to  some  distant  friends  of  mine, 
For  I  was  born  at  Bingen'' — at  Bingen  on  the  Rhine. 

*  Nursing  (nSrs'ing).     In  reading  this  most  beautiful  poem,  let  the 

student  be  careful  to  utter  the  modified  elements  covroctly. — 'Dearth.— 

Glances  (gl&ns'  ez). — *  Bingen  (bing'  en),  a  town  of  Germany,  noted  for 

its  superior  wines,  6ituf.t(  d  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Rhino,  at  the  influx 

of  the  Naho(na'6:. 


BTNGEN    ON    THE   KHINE.  131 


II. 

•*  Tell  my  brothers  and  companions,  when  they  meet  and  crowd 

around 
To  hear  my  mournful  story  in  the  pleasant  vineyard  ground, 
That  we  fought  the  battle  bravely,  and  when  the  day  was  done, 
Full  many  a  corse  lay  ghastly*  pale,  beneafh  the  setting  sun. 
And  midst  the  dead  and  dying,  were  some  grown  old  in  wais, 
The  death-wound  on  their  gallant  breasts,  the  last'  of  many  scars 
But  some  were  young — and  suddenly  beheld  life's  morn  decline ; 
And  one  had  come  from  Bingen — fair^  Bingen  on  the  Rhine ! 

III. 
"  Tell  my  mother  that  her^  other  sons  shall  comfort  her  old  age, 
And  I  was  aye  a  truant  bird,^  that  thought  his  home  a  cage  : 
For  my  father  was  a  soldier,  and  even  as  a  child 
My  heart  leap'd  forth  to  hear  him  tell  of  struggles  fierce  and  wild; 
And  when  he  died,  and  left  us  to  divide  his  scanty  hoard, 
I  let  them  take  whate'er  they  would,  but  kept  my  father's  si^ord, 
And  with  boyish  love  I  hung  it  where  the  bright  light  used  to 

shine. 
On  the  cottage-wall  at  Bingen — calm  Bingen  on  the  Rhine ! 

IV. 

"  Tell  my  sister  not  to  weep  for  me,  and  sob  with  drooping  head. 
When  the  troops  are  marching  home  again,   with  glad  and  gal- 
lant tread ; 
But  to  look  upon  them  proudly,  with  a  calm  and  steadfast  eyo, 
For  her  brother  was  a  soldier  too,  and  not  afraid  to  die. 
And  if  a  comrade  seek  her  love,  I  ask*  her  in  my  name 
To  listen  to  him  kindly,  without  regret  or  shame ; 
And  to  hang  the  old  sz(;ordin  its  place  (my  father's  sword  and  mine). 
For  the  honor  of  old  Bingen — dear  Bingen  on  the  Rhine ! 

V. 

"  There's  another — not  a  sister ;  in  the  happy  days  gone  by. 
You'd  have  known  her  by  the  merriment  that  sparkled  in  her  eye; 
Too  innocent  for  coquetry, — too  fond  for  idle  scorning, — 
Oh !  friend,  I  fear  the  lightest  heart  makes  sometimes  heavitist 
mourning ; 

'  QJil^V  ly.— »  List.— »  Fair.—*  Hk:—"  IJird  (beni).--  Ask  (Uk\ 


132  NATIONAL   FIFTH   READKK. 

Tell  her  the  last  night  of  my  life  (for,  ere  the  moon  be  risen 
My  body  will  be  out  of  pain — my  soul  be  out  of  prison), 
I  dream'cl  I  stood  wifh  her^  and  saw  the  yellow  sunlight  shine 
On  the  vine-clad  hills  of  Bingen — fair  Bingen  on  the  Rhine ! 

Yi. 
"  I  saw  the  blue  Rhine  sweep  along — I  heard,  or  seem'd  to  hear, 
Tlic  German  songs  we  used  to  sing,  in  chorus  sweet  and  clear; 
And  down  the  pleasant  river,  and  up  the  slanting  hill. 
The  echoing  chorus  sounded,  through  the  evening  calm  and  still ; 
And  her  glad  blue  eyes  were  on  me  as  we  passed  wifh  friendly 

talk 
Down  many  a  path  beloved  of  yore,  and  well-remember'd  walk, 
And  her  little  hand  lay  lightly,  confidingly  in  mine : 
But  we'll  meet  no  more  at  Binoren — loved  Binoren  on  the  Rhine !" 


VII. 

]Iis  voice  grew  faint  and  hoarser, — his  grasp  was  childish  weak, — 
His  eyes  put  on  a  dying  look, — he  sigh'd  and  ceased  to  speak : 
His  comrade  bent  to  lift  him,  but  the  spark  of  life  had  fled, — 
The  soldier  of  tlie  Leo-ion,  in  a  foreiijn  h\nd — was  dead  ! 
And  the  soft  moon  rose  up  slowly,  and  calmly  she  look'd  down 
On  the  red  sand  of  the  battle-field,  wifh  bloody  corpses  strown  ; 
Yea,  calmly  on  that  dreadful  scene  her  pale  light  seem'd  to  shine, 
As  it  shone  on  distant  Bingen^-fair  Bingen  on  the  Rhine ! 

Mrs.  Norton. 

Mrs.  Norton,  Caroline  Elizabeth  Sarah  Sheridan,  was  grand-daughter  ol 
Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan.  The  family  of  Sheridan  has  been  prolific  of  genius, 
and  she  has  well  sustained  the  family  honors.  In  her  seventeenth  year,  this  lady 
had  composed  her  poem,  "  The  Sorrows  of  Rosalie."  She  termed  her  next  poem, 
founded  on  the  anc:ent  legend  of  the  Wandering  Jew,  "  The  Undying  One.'' 
Her  third  volume,  entitled  "  The  Dream,  and  other  Poems,"  appeared  in  1840. 
"  This  lady,"  says  a  writer  in  the  Quarterly  Review,  "  is  the  Byron  of  our  modem 
poetesses.  She  has  very  much  of  that  intense  jiersoual  passion  by  which  Byron's 
poetry  is  distinguished  from  the  larger  grasp  and  deeper  communion  with  man 
and  nature  of  Wordsworth.  She  has  aJso  I  )Ton's  beautiful  intervals  of  tender- 
ness, his  strong  practical  thought,  and  his  forceful  expression.  Jt  is  not  an  arti- 
ticial  imitation,  but  a  natural  parallel."  She  was  married  at  the  age  of  nineteen 
to  the  Hon.  George  Cliappje  Norton,  brother  to  Lord  Grantley,  and  himself  a 
police  magistrate  in  Loiulon.  After  being  the  object  of  suppicion  and  persecution 
of  llie  most  pamful  description,  the  unicn  was  dissolved  in  1840. 


the  cost  of  militaky  glokt.  133 

26.   The  Cost  of  Military  Gloey. 

¥E  cw  inform  Brother  Jonathan'  what  are  the  inevitable 
consequences  of  being  too  fond  of  glory — Taxes  upon  eveiy 
article  which  enters  into  the  mouth,  or  covers  the  back,  or  is 
pinced  imder  the  foot — taxes  upon  every  thing  which  it  is 
pleasant  to  see,  hear,  feel,  smell,  or  taste — taxes  upon  warmth, 
light,  and  locomotion — taxes  on  every  thing  on  earth,  and 
the  waters  under  the  earth — on  every  thing  that  comes  from 
abroad,  or  is  grown  at  home — taxes  on  the  raw  material — taxes 
on  every  fresh  value  that  is  added  to  it  by  the  in'dustry  of  man 
— taxes  on  the  sauce  which  pampers  man's  appetite,  and  the 
drug  that  restores  him  to  health — on  the  ermine  which  decorates 
the  judge,  and  the  rope  which  hangs  the  criminal — on  the  poor 
man's  salt,  and  the  rich  man's  spice — on  the  brass  nails  of  the 
coffin,  and  the  ribbons  of  the  bride — at  bed  or  board,  couchant' 
or  levant,  we  must  pay. 

2.  The  schoolboy  whips  his  taxed  top ;  the  beardless  youth 
manages  his  taxed  horse,  with  a  taxed  bridle,  on  a  taxed  road ; 
and  the  dying  Englishman,  pouring  his  medicine,  which  has 
paid  seven  per  cent.,  into  a  spoon  that  has  paid  fifteen  per  cent., 
flings  himself  back  upon  his  chintz  bed,  which  has  paid 
twenty-two  per  cent.,  and  expires  in  the  arms  of  an  apothecary 
who  has  paid  a  license  of  a  hundred  pounds  for  the  privilege  ol 
putting  him  to  death.  His  whole  property  is  then  immediately 
taxed  from  two  to  ten  per  cent.  Besides  the  probate,^  large  feci 
are  demanded  for  burying  him  in  the  chancel  ;*  his  virtues  arc 
handed  down  to  posterity  on  taxed  marble ;  and  he  is  then 
gathered  to  his  fathers — to  be  taxed  no  more. 

^  Brother  Jonathan  is  a  name  sportively  given  by  the  English  to  the 
Americans  ;  and  on  the  other  hand,  the  English  themselves  are  frequent- 
ly called,  in  the  same  style,  by  the  familiar  name  of  John  Bull. — '  Le- 
vant and  couchant  in  law,  lying  down  and  rising  up  ;  applied  to  beasts, 
and  indicating  that  they  have  been  long  enough  on  land  to  lie  dow» 
and  rise  up  to  feed,  or  one  night  at  least. — '  Pro'  bate,  the  probate  of  a 
will  or  testament  is  the  proving  of  its  genuineness  and  validity,  or  tht» 
exliibition  of  the  will  to  the  proper  officer,  with  the  witnesses,  if  neces- 
sary, and  the  process  of  determining  its  validity  ;  the  right  or  jurisdic- 
tion of  proving  wills. — *  Chan' eel,  that  part  of  a  church  which  containi» 
the  altar  or  communion-table. 


lo4  NATIONAL    FIFFH    READER. 

3.  In  addition  to  all  this,  the  habit  of  dealing  \^ifll  large 
sums  will  make  the  government  avaricious  and  profuse ;  and  tlie 
system  itself  will  infallibly  generate  the  base  vermin  of  spies  and 
informers,  and  a  still  more  pestilent  race  of  political  tools  and 
retainers  of  the  meanest  and  most  odious  description ;  while  the 
prodigious  patronage  which  the  collecting  of  this  sjjlendid  rev- 
enue will  throw  into  the  hands  of  governmant,  will  invest  it  with 
60  vast  an  influence,  and  hold  out  such  means  and  temptations 
to  corruption,  as  all  the  virtue  and  public  spirit,  even  of  republi- 
cans, will  be  unable  so  resist.  Sidney  Smith. 

Rev.  Sidney  Smith,  who,  for  half  a  century,  rendered  himself  conspicuous  aa 
a  political  writer  and  critic,  was  bom  at  Woodford,  in  Essex,  in  the  year  17C9 ; 
received  his  education  at  Winchester  College,  and  was  then  elected  to  New 
College,  Oxford,  in  1780.  He  was  ordained  to  a  curacy  in  Wiltshire  ;  but  soon 
after  left  for  Edinburgh,  where  he  was  minister  of  the  Episcopal  church  for  five 
"'^ars.  He  was  the  projector  of  the  "  Edinburgh  Review,"  and  edited  the  first 
number  before  leaving  for  Loudon,  where  he  became,  in  every  sense  of  the 
word,  "  a  popular  preacher."  Nor  were  his  oral  eloquence,  wit,  and  leeinung 
confined  to  the  pulpit  alone  ;  with  equal  success  he  displayed  his  abilities  as  a 
lecturer  on  the  belles-lettres  at  the  Royal  Institution,  his  fame  increasing 
with  every  fresh  effort  of  his  genius.  His  contributions  to  the  "  Edinburgh  Re- 
view," and  various  other  productions,  have  been  collected,  and  have  gone 
through  several  editions ;  and,  more  recently,  his  "  Sketches  of  Moral  Philoso- 
phy," or  lectures  upon  that  subject,  delivered  at  the  Royal  Institution,  have 
been  published.    He  died  Feb.  ai,  1845,  aged  70. 


27.   Lochiel's  Warning. 

Wizard. 

1.  T  OCHIEL,  Lochiel,  beware^  of  the  day 

JLi  When  the  Lowlands  shall  meet  thee  in  battle  array ! 
For  a  field  of  the  dead  rushes  red  on  my  sight, 
And  the  clans  of  Cullo'den'  are  scatter'd  in  fight ; 
They  rally,  they  bleed,  for  their  kingdom  and  crown ; 
Woe,  woe,  to  the  riders  that  trample  them  down ! 

*  Be  whre.  In  this,  as  in  most  exquisite  poems,  modifitd  elemenU  frequent- 
ly occur  ;  and  when  correctly  uttered,  produce  a  most  happy  effect.  See 
notes  to  the  "Table  of  Oral  Elements,"  p.  17.— ' Cul  li' den,  a  wide, 
moory  ridge  of  Scotland,  county  of  Inverness,  in  the  puish  of  Croy, 
memorable  for  the  totiil  defeat  of  Prince  Charles's  army,  on  the  IGth  of 
April,  1746,  by  the  royal  troops  iinvler  the  Duke  of  Cumberland. 


135 

Proud  Cumberland  prances,'  insulting  the  slain, 
And  their  hoof-beaten'  bosoms  are  trod  to  the  plain. 
But  hark !  through  the  fast-flashing  lightning  of  war, 
What  steed  to  the  desert  flies  frantic  and  far  ? 
'Tis  thine,  O  Glenullin !  whose  bride  shall  await. 
Like  a  love-lighted  watch-fire,  all  night  at  the  gate. 
A  steed  comes  at  morning — no  rider  is  there  ;* 
But  its  bridle  is  red  wifh  the  sign  of  despair.* 
Weep,  Albin !  to  death  and  captivity  led ! 
Oh  weep !  but  thy  tears  can  not  number  the  dead ; 
For  a  merciless^  szoord  on  Cullodcn  shall  wave — 
CuUoden,  that  reeks  with  the  blood  of  the  brave ! 

LOCHIEL. 

Go  preach  to  the  coward,  thou  death-telling  seer  J 
Or,  if  gory  Cullo'den  so  dreadful  appear, 

•  Draw,  dotard,  around  thy  old  wavering  sight, 
This  mantle,  to  cover  the  phantoms  of  fright. 

Wizard. 
Ha !  laugh'st*  thou,  Lochiel,  my  vision  to  scorn  ? 
Proud  bird^  of  the  mountain,  thy  plume  shall  be  torn ! 
Say,  rush'd  the  bold  eagle  exultingly  forth 
From  his  home  in  the  daiiv-rolling  clouds  of  the  north  ? 
Lo !  the  death-shot  of  foemen  out-speeding,  he  rode 
Companionless,  bearing*^  destruction  abroad ; 
But  down  let  him  stoop  from  his  havoc  on  high ! 
Ah  !  home  let  him  speed,  for  the  spoiler  is  nigh. 
Why  flames  the  far  summit  ?    Why  shoot  to  the  blast' 
Those  embers,  like  stars  from  the  firmament  cast?'° 
'Tis  the  fire-shower  of  ruin,  all  dreadfully  driven 
From  his  eyry,"  that  beacons"^  the  darkness  of  heaven. 
O  crested  Lochiel !  the  peerless  in  mig*ht. 
Whose  banners  arise  on  the  battlements'  height, 

^Prances   (prSns'ez).—' Hoof-beaten  (h5f-bfe' tn).—» There  (th&r).- 

•  De  sp^ir'.— »  M^r'  ci  less.— •  Laugh'st  (lafst).— '  Bird  (bird).—'  Bearing. 
— "  BlUst.— "  C^st.— "  Eyri  (kr'  I),  a  place  where  birds  of  prey  build  theii 
nests ;  the  nest  of  a  bird  of  prey. — "  Bearms  (b^'  knz),  aftords  light  as  a 
beacon,  or  aignal-fire,  on  an  eminence. 


136  NATIONAL    FlFrn    KEADEK. 

Heaven's  fire  is  around  thee  to  blast  and  to  burn ; 
Return'  to  thy  dwelling ;  all  lonely  return ! 
For  the  blackness  of  ashes  shall  mark  where'  it  stood, 
And  a  wild  mother  -.cream  o'er  her  famishing  brood ! 

LOCHIEL. 

False  wizard,  avaunt  !*  I  have  marshall'd  my  clan : 
Their  sif'ords  are  a  thousand ;  their  bosoms  are  one. 
They  are  true  to  the  last*  of  their  blood  and  their  breath. 
And  like  reapers  descend  to  the  harvest  of  death. 
Then  welcome  be  Cumberland's  steed  to  the  shock ! 
Let  him  dash  his  proud  foam  like  a  wave  on  the  rock  I 
But  woe  to  his  kindred,  and  woe  to  his  cause. 
When  Albin  her  claymore®  indignantly  draws ; 
When  her  bonneted  chieftains  to  victory  crowd, 
Clanranald  the  dauntless,  and  Moray  the  proud, 
All  plaided  and  plumed  in  their  tartan  array 

Wizard. 
Lochiel,  Lochiel,  beware  of  the  day ! 
For,  dark  and  despairing,  my  sight  I  may  seal, 
Yet  man  can  not  cover  what  God  would  reveal ! 
'Tis  the  sunset  of  life  gives  me  mystical  l5re. 
And  coming  events  cast  their  shadows  before. 
I  tell  thee,  Cullo 'den's  dread  echoes  shall  ring 
Wifli  the  bloodhounds  that  bark  for  thy  fugitive  king. 
Lo !  anointed  by  Heaven  with  the  vials  of  wrath,' 
Behold  where  he  flies  on  his  desolate  path  !^ 
Now  in  darkness  and  billows  he  sweeps  from  my  sight : 
Rise !  rise !  ye  wild  tempests,  and  cover  his  flight ! — 
'Tis  finish'd.     Their^  thunders  are  hush'd  on  the  moors ; 
CuUoden  is  lost,  and  my  country  deplores. 
But  where  is  the  iron-bound  piisoner  ?     AVTiere  ? 
For  the  red  eye  of  battle  is  shut  in  despair. 
Say,  mounts  he  the  ocean-wave,  banish'd,  forlorn. 
Like  a  limb  from  his  country  cast  bleeding  and  torn  ? 

^  Burn  (bSrn).  — » Eeturn  (re  tSrn').  —  *  Where  (wh&r)  .—*  A  vi«nt'.— 
L&st. — •  Cliy'  m6re,  a  large,  two-handed  sword,  formerly  used  by  the 
Scottiah  Highlanders.—'  Wrath  (r&th).— 'P&th  ^"Dioir  (th&r). 


LOCHIEL'8    WARNING.  137 

Ah !  no ;  for  a  darker  departure  is  near ; 
The  war-drnni  is  muffled,  and  black  is  the  bisi ; 
His  death-bell  is  tolling :  0,  mercy,  dispel 
Yon  sight,  that  it  freezes  my  spirit  to  tell ! 
Life  fluttei-s,  convulsed,  in  his  quivering  limbs, 
And  his  blood-streaming  nostril  in  agony  swims ! 
A^ccursed*  be  the  fagots  that  blaze  at  his  feet, 
Where  his  heart  shall  be  thrown,  ere  it  ceases  to  beat, 
With  the  smoke  of  its  ashes  to  poison  the  gale 

LOCHIEL. 

Down,  soothless  insulter !     I  trust  not  the  tale ! 

For  never  shall  Albin  a  destiny  meet 

So  black  wifli  dishonor,  so  foul  with  retreat ! 

Though  his  perishing  ranks  should  be  strew'd  in  their  gore, 

Like  ocean-weeds  heap'd  on  the  surf-beaten''  shore, 

Lochiel,  untainted  by  flight  or  by  chains. 

While  the  kindling  of  life  in  his  bosom  remains, 

Shall  victor  exult,  or  in  death  be  laid  low. 

With  his  back  to  the  field,  and  his  feet  to  the  foe ! 

And,  leaving  in  battle  no  blot  on  his  name. 

Look  proudly  to  heaven  from  the  death-bed  of  fame ! 

Thomas  Campbell. 

Thomas  Campbell,  the  distinguished  poet,  a  cadet  of  the  respectable  family  of 
Campbell,  of  Kiman,  in  Argyleshire,  was  born  in  Glasgow,  on  tlie  27th  of  July, 
1777.  Owing  to  the  straitened  circumstances  of  his  father,  young  Campbell 
was  obliged,  while  attending  college,  to  have  recourse  to  private  teaching  as  a 
tutor.  Notwithstanding  this  additional  labor,  he  made  rapid  progress  in  his 
studies,  and  attained  considerable  distinction  at  the  university  of  his  native  city 
He  very  early  gave  proofs  of  his  aptitude  for  literary  composition,  especially  in 
the  department  of  poetry.  At  the  age  of  twenty,  he  occasionally  labored  for  the 
booksellers,  while  attending  lectures  at  the  university  in  Edinburgh.  In  1799, 
his  first  extended  poem,  "  The  Pleasures  of  Hope,"  was  published.  Its  success 
was  instantaneous  and  without  parallel.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say,  that  it  is, 
without  an  exception,  the  finest  didactic  poem  in  the  English  language.  In 
1809,  he  published  "  Gertrude  of  Wyoming,"  which  holds  the  second  place 
among  his  lengthier  poems,  and  to  which  were  attached  the  most  celebrated  of 
Ijis  grand  and  powerful  lyrics.  Though  Campbell  was  too  frequently  timid,  and 
noted  more  for  beauties  of  expression  than  for  high  inventive  power  and  vigorous 
execution,  yet  his  lyrical  pieces,  particularly  "  The  Battle  of  tlie  Baltic,"  "  Mari- 
ners of  England,"  "  Hoheulinden,"  and  "  Lochiel's  Warning,"  which  appear  to 
have  been  struck  off  at  a  heat,  proA»e  conclusively  that  his  concept?  tns,  when  not 


Accm-sed  (akklrst').—' Surf-beaten  (sirf  b^'tn). 


138  NATIONAL    FIFfli    KEADKK. 

tvK)  much  subjected  to  elaboration,  were  glowing,  bold,  and  powerful.  In  the 
Jaiter  part  of  the  poet's  life  his  circumstances  were  materially  improved,  hi 
ifl26,  he  was  elected  Lord  Rector  of  the  University  of  Glasgow.  He  died  on  the 
15th  of  July,  1844,  at  the  age  of  fiixty-seven,  and  his  remains  were  solemnly  in- 
terred in  Westminster  Abbey 


28.  BioGEiajHT  OF  Jacob  Hays. 

WHERE  the  sutject  of  the  present  mem'oir'  was  born,  can  bv. 
but  of  little  consequence ;  who  were  his  father  and  motht^r, 
of  still  less;  and  how  he  was  bred  and  educated,  of  none  at  all. 
I  shall  therefore  pass  over  this  division  of  his  existence  in  elo- 
quent silence,  and  come  at  once  to  the  period  when  he  attained 
the  ac'ni6^  of  constabulary^  power  and  dignity  by  being  created 
high-constable  of  this  city  and  its  suburbs ;  and  it  may  be  re- 
marked, in  passing,  that  the  honorable  the  corporation,  during 
their  long  and  unsatisfactory  career,  never  made  an  appointment 
more  creditable  to  themselves,  more  beneficial  to  the  city,  more 
honorable  to  the  country  at  large,  more  imposing  in  the  eye  of 
foreign  nations,  more  disagreeable  to  all  rogues,  nor  more  grati- 
fying to  honest  men,  than  that  of  the  gentleman  whom  we  are 
biographizing,  to  the  high  office  he  now  holds. 

2.  His  acuteness  and  vigilance  have  become  proverbial ;  and 
there  is  not  a  misdeed  committed  by  any  member  of  this  com- 
munity, but  he  is  speedily  admonished  that  he  will  "  have  old 
Hays  (as  he  is  aflfectionately  and  familiarly  termed)  after  him.'' 
Indeed,  it  is  supposed  by  many  that  he  is  gifted  with  supernatu- 
ral attributes,  and  can  see  things  that  are  hid  from  mortal  ken ; 
or  how,  it  is  contended,  is  it  possible  that  he  should,  as  he  does, 
"  bring  forth  the  secret'st  man  of  blood  ?"  That  he  can  discover 
"  undivulged  crime" — that  when  a  store  has  been  robbed,  he, 
without  hesitation,  can  march  directly  to  the  house  where  the 
goods  are  concealed,  and  say,  "  These  are  they" — or,  when  a  gen- 
tleman's pocket  has  been  picked,  that,  from  a  crowd  of  unsavory 
miscreants  he  can,  with  ungrring  judgment,  lay  his  hand  upon 
one  and  exclaim, "  You're  wanted !" — or,  how  is  it  that  he  is  gift- 

-  Memoir  (mSm' w4r),  a  biography;  a  kind  of  familiar  history.— 
'  Ac'  mh,  the  heiglit  or  toi)  of  a  thing. — *  Con  stib'  u  la  ry,  relating  to  u 
constable,  or  politui-officor. 


BIOGRAPHY    OF   JACOB    HAYS.  139 

ed  with  that  strange  principle  of  ubiquity'  that  makes  him  "  here, 
and  there,  and  everywhere"  at  the  same  moment  ?  No  matter 
how,  so  long  as  the  public  reap  the  benefit;  and  well  may  that 
public  apostrophize  him  in  the  words  of  the  poet — 

Long  may  he  live  !  our  city's  pride  1 

Where  lives  the  rogue,  but  flies  before  him ! 

With  trusty  crabstick  by  his  side. 
And  staff  of  office  waving  o'er  him. 

3.  But  it  is  principally  as  a  literary  man  that  we  would  speak 
of  Mr.  Hays.  True,  his  poetry  is  "  unwritten,"  as  is  also  his 
prose;  and  he  has  invariably  expressed  a  decided  contempt  for 
philosophy,  music,  rhetoric,  the  belles-lettres^  the  fine  arts,  and 
in  fact  all  species  of  composition  excepting  bailiffs'  warrants  and 
bills  of  indictihent :  but  what  of  that  ?  The  constitution  of  his 
mind  is,  even  unknown  to  himself,  decidedly  poetical.  And  here 
I  may  be  allowed  to  avail  myself  of  another  peculiarity  of  mod- 
ern biography,  namely,  that  of  describing  a  man  by  what  he  is 
not. 

4.  Mr.  Hays  has  not  the  graphic  power  or  antiquarian'  lore  of 
Sir  Walter  Scott — nor  the  glittering  imagery  or  voluptuous  ten- 
derness of  Moore — nor  the  delicacy  and  polish  of  Rogers — nor  the 
spirit  of  Campbell — nor  the  sentimentalism  of  Miss  Landon — nor 
the  depth  and  purity  of  thought  and  intimate  acquaintance  wifli 
nature  of  Bryant — nor  the  brilliant  style  and  playful  humor  of 
Halleck  :  no,  he  is  more  in  the  petit  larceny''  manner  of  Crabbe, 
with  a  slight  touch  of  Byronic  power  and  gloom.  He  is  famil- 
iarly acquainted  with  all  those  in'teresting  scenes  of  vice  and 
poverty  so  fondly  dwelt  upon  by  that  reverend  chronicler  of  lit- 
tle villainy,  and  if  ever  he  can  be  prevailed  upon  to  publish, 
there  will  doubtless  be  found  a  remarkable  similarity  in  their 
works. 

5.  His  height  is  about  five  feet  seven  inches,  but  who  makes 
his  clothes  we  have  as  yet  been  unable  to  ascertain.     His  coun- 

'  Ubiquity  (yu  bik'  we  i\),  existence  everywhere  at  once.  — '  Belles-let- 
tres (bel-lfef  ter),  elegant  literature. — '  An  ti  qui'  ri  an,  pertaining  to  an- 
tiquity.— *  PSt'  it  l^r'  ce  ny,  small  thefts.  In  England,  the  stealing  of 
any  thing  of  the  value  of  twelve  pence,  or  under  that  amount ;  and  in 
New  York,  under  twenty-five  dollars. 


140  NATIONAL    FlVni    READKIt. 

tenance  is  strongly  marked,  and  forcibly  brings  to  mind  the  lines 
of  Byron  when  describing  his  Corsair — 

There  was  a  laughing  devil  in  his  sneer 
That  raised  emotions  both  of  hate  and  fear ; 
And  where  his  glance  of  "  apprehension"  fell, 
Hope  withering  fled,  and  mercy  sigh'd,  farewell  1 

6.  Yet  wifh  all  his  great  qualities,  it  is  to  be  doubted  whether 
he  is  much  to  be  envied.  His  situation  certainly  has  its  disad- 
vantages. Pure  and  blameless  as  his  life  is,  his  society  is  not 
courted — no  man  boasts  of  his  friendship,  and  few  indeed  like 
even  to  own  him  for  an  intimate  acquaintance.  Wherever  he 
goes  his  slightest  action  is  watched  and  criticised ;  and  if  he 
happen  carelessly  to  lay  his  hand  upon  a  gentleman's  shoulder 
and  whisper  something  in  his  ear,  even  that  man,  as  if  there 
were  contamination  in  his  touch,  is  seldom  or  never  seen  after- 
ward in  decent  society.  Such  things  can  not  fail  to  prey  upon 
his  feelings.  But  when  did  ever  greatness  exist  without  some 
penalty  attached  to  it  ? 

v.  The  first  time  that  ever  Hays  was  pointed  out  to  me,  wa4> 
one  summer  afternoon,  when  acting  in  his  official  capacity  in  the 
City  Hall.  The  room  was  crowded  in  every  part,  and  as  he  en- 
tered with  a  luckless  wretch  in  his  gripe,  a  low  suppressed  mur- 
mur ran  through  the  hall,  as  if  some  superior  being  had  alighted 
in  the  midst  of  them.  He  placed  the  prisoner  at  the  bar — a 
poor  coatless  individual,  with  scarcely  any  edging  and  no  fooi 
to  his  hat — to  stand  his  trial  for  bigamy,'  and  then,  in  a  loud, 
authoritative  tone,  called  out  for  "  silence,"  and  there  was  silence- 
Again  he  spoke — "  Hats  off  there !"  and  the  multitude  became 
uncovered ;  after  which  he  took  his  handkerchief  out  of  his  left- 
hand  coat-pocket,  wiped  his  face,  put  it  back  again,  looked  stern 
ly  around,  and  then  sat  down. 

8.  The  scene  was  awful  and  impressive ;  but  the  odor  "was  dis 
agreeable  in  consequence  of  the  heat  acting  upon  a  large  quan- 
tity of  animal  matter  congregated  together.  My  olfactory'  or 
gans  were  always  lam'entably  acute :  I  was  obliged  to  retire, 

•Blg'^amy,  the  crime  of  havinj]^  two  wives  or  two  husbands  at  the 
same  time.—'  01  fdc'  to  ry,  pertjiining  to  smelling. 


A   MODEST    WIT.  14rl 

and  from  that  time  to  this,  I  have  seen  nothing,  though  I  have 
heard  much  of  the  subject  of  this  brief  and  imperfect,  but,  I  trust, 
honest  and  impartial  memoir. 

9.  Health  and  happiness  be  wifli  thee,  thou  prince  of  consta- 
bles— thou  guardian  of  innocence — thou  terror  of  evil-doers  and 
little  boys !  May  thy  years  be  many  and  thy  sorrows  few — may 
thy  life  be  like  a  long  and  cloudless  summer's  day,  and  may  thy 
salary  be  increased!  And  when  at  last  the  summons  conies 
from  which  there  is  no  escaping — when  the  warrant  arrives 
upon  which  no  bail  can  be  put  in — when  thou  thyself,  that  hast 
**  wanted"  sc  many,  art  in  turn  "  wanted,  and  must  go," 

Mayst  thou  fall 
Into  the  grave  as  softly  as  the  leaves 
Of  the  sweet  roses  on  an  autumn  eve, 
Beneath  the  small  sighs  of  the  western  wind, 
Drop  to  the  earth  !  William  Cox. 

William  Cox,  author  of  two  volumes,  entitled  "  Crayon  Sketches,"  published 
in  New  York,  in  1833,  an  Englishman  by  birth,  came  to  America  at  an  early 
age  to  practice  his  calling  of  a  printer.  He  was  employed  on  the  "  Mirror," 
conducted  by  General  Mokris,  and  gained  a  literary  reputation  by  contributing 
a  series  of  essays  to  its  columns.  These,  in  a  happy  vein  of  humor  and  criticism, 
satirizing  the  hterary  infirmities  of  the  times,  pleased  men  of  taste  and  good 
sense.  The  above  sketch,  "  written  during  an  awful  prevalence  of  biographies," 
gained  great  celebrity  at  the  time.  His  ''  Crayon  sketches"  are  full  of  original- 
ity, pleasantry,  and  wit,  alternately  reminding  the  reader  of  the  poetical  elo- 
quence of  Hazlitt,  and  the  quaint  humor  and  eccentric  tastes  of  Charles  Lamb. 
After  writing  a  number  of  years  for  the  3Iirror,  he  returned  to  England,  where 
he  died  m  1851. 


29.   A  Modest  Wit. 

1.    A    SUPERCILIOUS'  nabob^  of  the  East— 

lA.    Haughty,  being  great — purse-proud,  being  rich — 
A  governor,  or  general,  at  the  least, 

I  have  forgotten  which — 
Had  in  his  family  a  humble  youth, 

Who  went  from  England  in  his  patron's  smte, 


Supercilious  (su  per  sll'  yus),  haughty ;  lofty  with  pride. — '  M'  bob, 
a  deputy  or  prince  in  India  ;  a  rich  man. 


14:2  NATIONAL   FIFTH    READER. 

An  unassuming  boy,  and  in  truth 

A  lad  of  decent  parts,  and  good  repute. 

2.  This  youth  had  sense  and  spirit ; 

But  yet,  wifli  all  his  sense, 
Excessive  diffidence 
Obscured  his  merit. 

3.  One  day,  at  table,  flush'd  wifli  pride  and  wine, 

His  honor,  proudly  free,  severely  merry. 
Conceived  it  would  be  vastly  fine 
To  crack  a  joke  upon  his  secretary. 

4.  "Young  man,"  he  said,  "by  what  art,  craft,  or  trade 

Did  your  good  father  gain  a  livelihood  ?" — 
"  He  was  a  saddler,  sir,"  Modestus  said. 
And  in  his  time  was  reckon'd  good." 

6.  "  A  saddler,  eh !  and  taught  you  Greek, 
Instead  of  teaching  you  to  sew ! 
Pray,  why  did  not  your  father  make 
A  saddler,  sir,  of  you  ?" 

6.  Each  parasite,'  then,  as  in  duty  bound. 

The  joke  applauded,  and  the  laugh  went  round. 

At  length  Modestus,  bowing  low. 
Said  (craving  pardon,  if  too  free  he  made), 

"  Sir,  by  your  leave,  I  fain  would  know 
Your  father's  trade  1" 

7.  "  My  father's  trade !  by  heaven,  that's  too  bad  I 
My  father's  trade?    Why,  blockhead,  are  you  mad? 
My  father,  sir,  did  never  stoop  so  low — 

He  was  a  gentleman,  I'd  have  you  know." 

8.  "  Excuse  the  liberty  I  take," 

Modestus  said,  wifli  arcaness  on  his  brow, 
"  Pray,  why  did  not  your  father  make 

A  gentleman  of  you  ?"  Augn. 


*  P&r'  p,  site,  an  eater  with  ;  a  hanger-on ;  one  who  fawns  on  the  rich. 
In  botany,  a  plant  that  grows  and  lives  on  another. 


THE   USES   OF   HISTORY.  143 


30.  The  Uses  of  Histoky. 

HOW  vain,  how  fleeting,  tow  uncertain  are  all  those  gandy 
bubbles  after  which  we  are  panting  and  toiling  in  this  world 
of  fair  delusion !  The  wealth  which  the  miser  has  amassed  wi& 
so  many  weary  days,  so  many  sleepless  nights,  a  spendthrift  heir 
may  squander  away  in  joyless  prodigality.  The  noblest  monu- 
ments which  pride  has  ever  reared  to  perpetuate  a  name,  the 
hand  of  time  will  shortly  tumble  into  ruins — and  even  the 
brightest  laurels,  gained  by  feats  of  arms,  may  wither  and  be 
forever  blighted  by  the  chilling  neglect  of  mankind. 

2.  "  How  many  illustrious  heroes,"  says  the  good  Boethius,' 
"  who  were  once  the  pride  and  glory  of  the  age,  hath  the  silence 
of  historians  buried  in  eternal  oblivion !"  And  this  it  was  that 
induced  the  Spartans,  when  they  went  to  battle,  solemnly  to 
sacrifice  to  the  Muses,'  supplicating  that  their  achievements 
should  be  worthily  recorded.  Had  not  Homer^  tuned  his  lofty 
lyre,  observes  the  elegant  Cicero,^  the  valor  of  Achilles*  had  re- 
mained unsung.  And  such,  too,  after  all  the  toils  and  perils  he 
had  braved,  after  all  the  gallant  actions  he  had  achieved,  such 
too  had  nearly  been  the  fate  of  the  chivalric^  Peter  Stuyvesant, 
but  that  I  fortunately  stepped  in  and  engraved  his  name  on  the 
indelible  tablet  of  history,  just  as  the  caitiff**  Time  was  silently 
brushing  it  away  forever. 

'  Bo  e'  thi  us,  a  Latin  statesman,  philosopher,  and  writer,  was  bora 
at  Kome,  of  a  rich  and  noble  family,  about  470.  His  writings  are  nu- 
merous, and  on  a  variety  of  subjects,  the  most  famous  work,  '*  De  Con- 
solatione  Philosophiae,"  being  written  in  prison,  where  he  was  unjustly 
beheaded,  October  23,  526. — 'Muses  (mu'zez),  in  mythology,  the  nine 
sister  goddesses  presiding  over  the  liberal  arts. — '  Homer,  the  most  dis- 
tinguished of  poets,  called  tho  "Father  of  Song."  He  is  supposed  to 
have  been  an  Asiatic  Greek,  though  his  birth-place,  and  the  period  in 
which  he  lived,  are  not  known. — *  Marcus  Tullius  Cicero,  Consul  ol 
Rome,  a  distinguished  orator,  writer,  rhetorician,  and  philosopher,  born 
at  Arpinum,  in  b.  c.  106,  beheaded  b.  c.  43. — ^  Achilles  (aldl'lfez),  the 
bravest  of  the  Grecian  princes,  described  by  Homer  in  the  Iliad,  and  his 
death  in  the  24th  book  of  the  Odyssey.— •  Chivaliic  (shlv'al  r!k). — 
^  Peter  Stuyvesant,  the  last  Dutch  governor  of  New  York,  appointed  in 
1647,  born  in  Holland.  He  remained  in  New  York  after  it  fell  into  the 
hands  of  the  English,  and  died  there.—*  C^'  tiff,  a  base  fellow  ;  a  villain. 


144  NATIONAI.    FI1»TH    READER. 

3.  The  more  I  reflect,  the  more  am  I  astonished  at  the  im- 
portant character  of  the  historian.  He  is  the  sovereign  censor 
to  decide  upon  the  renown  or  infamy  of  his  fellow-men — he  is 
the  patron  of  kings-  and  conquerors,  on  whom  it  depends 
whether  they  shall  live  in  after  ages,  or  be  forgotten,  as  were 
their  ancestors  before  them.  The  tyrant  may  oppress  while  the 
object  of  his  tyranny  exists,  but  the  historian  possesses  superior 
might,  for  his  power  extends  even  beyond  the  grave. 

4.  The  shades  of  departed  and  long-forgotten  heroes  anxiously 
bend  down  from  above,  while  he  writes,  watching  each  move- 
ment of  his  pen,  whether  it  shall  pass  by  their  names  wifli 
neglect,  or  inscribe  them  on  the  deathless  pages  of  renown. 
Even  the  drop  of  ink  that  hangs  trembling  on  his  pen,  which  he 
may  either  dash  upon  the  floor  or  waste  in  idle  scrawlings — that 
very  drop,  which  to  him  is  not  worth  the  twentieth  part  of  a 
farthing,  may  be  of  incalculable  value  to  some  departed  wor- 
thy— may  elevate  half  a  score  in  one  moment  to  immortality, 
who  would  have  given  worlds,  had  they  possessed  them,  to 
insure  the  glorious  meed. 

5.  Let  not  my  readers  imagine,  however,  that  I  am  indulging 
in  vain-glorious  boastings,  or  am  anxious  to  blazon  forth  the 
importance  of  my  tribe.  On  the  contrary,  I  shrink  when  I  re- 
flect on  the  awful  responsibility  we  historians  assume — I  shudder 
to  think  what  direful  commotions  and  calamities  we  occasion  in 
the  world— I  swear  to  thee,  honest  reader,  as  I  am  a  man,  I 
weep  at  the  very  idea ! 

6.  Why,  let  me  ask,  are  so  many  illustrious  men  daily  tearing 
themselves  away  from  the  embraces  of  their  families — slighting 
the  smiles  of  beauty — despising  the  allurements  of  fortune,  and 
exposing  themselves  to  the  miseries  of  war?  Why  are  kings 
desolating  empires  and  depopulating  whole  countries  ?  In  short, 
what  induces  all  great  men,  of  all  ages  and  countries,  to  commit 
BO  many  victories  and  misdeeds,  and  inflict  so  many  miseries 
upon  mankind  and  on  themselves,  but  the  mere  hope  that  some 
historian  will  kindly  take  them  into  notice,  and  admit  them  into 
a  corner  of  his  volume.  For,  in  short,  the  mighty  object  of  all 
their  toils,  their  hardships,  and  privations,  is  nothing  but  im- 
mortal fa?ne.  And  what  is  immortal  fame?  Why,  half  a  page  of 
dirty  paper !     x\las !  alas !  how  humiliating  the  idea — that  the 


ANCIENT    AND    MODERN   WRITERS.  145 

renown  of  so  great  a  man  as  Peter  Stuyvesant  should  depend 
upon  the  pen  of  so  little  a  man  as  Diedrich  Knickerbocker  !^ 

Washington  Irving.' 


31.     Ancient  and  Modern  "Weitees. 

THE  classics  possess  a  peculiar  charm,  from  the  circumstance 
that  they  have  been  the  models,  I  might  almost  say  the 
masters,  of  composition  and  thought  in  all  ages.  In  the  con- 
templation of  these  august  teachers  of  mankind,  we  are  filled 
with  conflicting  emotions. 

2.  They  are  the  early  voice  of  the  world,  better  remembered 
and  more  cherished  still  than  all  the  intermediate  words  that 
have  been  uttered ;  as  the  lessons  of  childhood  still  haunt  us 
when  the  impressions  of  later  years  have  been  effaced  from  the 
mind.  But  they  show  with  most  unwelcome  frequency  the  to- 
kens of  the  world's  childhood,  before  passion  had  yielded  to  the 
sway  of  reason  and  the  affections.  They  want  the  highest  charm 
of  purity,  of  righteousness,  of  elevated  sentiments,  of  love  to  God 
and  man. 

3.  It  is  not  in  the  frigid  philosophy  of  the  Porch  and  the 
Academy  that  we  are  to  seek  the^e;  not  in  the  marvelous 
teachings  of  Socrates,'  as  they  come  mended  by  the  mellifluous* 
words  of  Plato  ;^  not  in  the  resounding  lines  of  Homer,  on  whose 
inspiring  tale  of  blood  Alexander"  pillowed  his  head  ;  not  in  the 
animated  strain  of  Pindar,'  where  virtue  is  pictured  in  the  suc- 

^  Diedrich  Knickerbocker,  the  name  given  by  the  accomplished  author 
to  a  fictitious  satirical  historian  of  New  York. — "  See  Biographical  Sketch, 
p.  114 — 'Socrates,  an  illustrious  Grecian  philosopher  and  teacher  of 
youth,  was  born  at  Athens,  in  the  year  468  B.  c.  Though  the  best  of  all 
the  men  of  his  time,  and  one  of  the  wisest  and  most  just  of  all  men,  he 
unjustly  suffered  the  punishment  of  death  for  impiety,  at  the  age  of 
seventy. — *  Mel  Iff '  lu  ous,  flowing  with  honey;  sweetly  flowing; 
smooth.— 5  Plato,  whose  name  stands  first  in  speculative  philosophy, 
born  at  Athens  or  Egina  about  430  B.  c. ;  died  in  his  eightieth  year. — 
•Alexander  the  Great,  son  of  Philip,  king  of  Macedonia,  one  of  the  States 
of  Greece,  was  born  in  the  autumn,  b.  c.  356.  He  made  so  many  con- 
quests, that  he  was  styled  the  Conqueror  of  the  World.  He  died  in  May 
or  June,  b.  c.  323. — '  Pindar,  the  greatest  of  the  Greek  yric  poets,  bom 
B.  c.  518,  an4  died  b.  c.  439.  m 


146  NATIONAL   FIFTH    READER. 

cessful  strife  of  an  athlete'  at  the  Isthmian  games ;  not  in  the 
torrent  of  Demosthenes,''  dark  with  self-love  and  the  spirit  of 
vengeance ;  not  in  the  fitful  philosophy  and  intemperate  elo- 
quence of  Tully ;'  not  in  the  genial  libertinism  of  Horace/  or  the 
stately  atheism  of  Lucretius.*  No :  these  must  not  be  our  mas- 
ters ;  in  none  of  these  are  we  to  seek  the  way  of  life. 

4.  For  eighteen  hundred  years  the  spirit  of  these  writers  has 
been  engaged  in  weaponless  contest  wifh  the  Sermon  on  the 
Mount,  and  those  two  sublime  commandments  on  which  hang 
all  the  law  and  the  prophets.  The  strife  is  still  pending. 
Heathenism,  which  has  possessed  itself  of  such  siren  forms,  is 
not  yet  exorcised.  It  still  tempts  the  young,  controls  the  aflfairs 
of  active  life,  and  haunts  the  meditations  of  age. 

5.  Our  own  productions,  though  they  may  yield  to  those  of 
the  ancients  in  the  arrangement  of  ideas,  in  method,  in  beauty 
of  form,  and  in  freshness  of  illustration,  are  immeasurably  supe- 
rior in  the  truth,  delicacy,  and  elevation  of  their  sentiments; 
above  all,  in  the  benign  recognition  of  that  great  Christian  reve- 
lation, the  brotherhood  of  man.  How  vain  are  eloquence  and 
poetr}^,  conjpared  with  this  heaven-descended  truth  I  Put  in 
one  scale  that  simple  utterance,  and  in  the  other  the  lore  of  an- 
tiquity, with  its  accumulating  glosses  and  commentaries,  and  the 
last  will  be  light  and  trivial  in  the  balance.  Greek  poetry  has 
been  likened  to  the  song  of  the  nightingale,  as  she  sits  in  the 
rich,  symmetrical  crown  of  the  palm-tree,  trilling  her  thick- 
warbled  notes ;  but  even  this  is  less  sweet  and  tender  than  the 
music  of  the  human  heart.  Cuarles  Sumner. 

Charles  Sumner,  son  of  Charles  Pinckney  Sumner,  slieriff  of  Suffolk,  Massa- 
chusetts, was  bom  in  Boston,  1811.  He  is  widely  known  for  the  extent  of  his 
legal  knowledge  and  general  attainments.  As  an  orator  and  writer,  he  stands 
deservedly  high.    His  style  is  rapid  and  energetic,  with  much  fullness  of  thought 

'  Ath  Ute',  a  contender  for  victory  in  wrestling  or  other  games.— 
'  Demosthenes,  the  grentest  of  the  Greek  orators,  born  at  Athens  about 
the  year  b.  c.  382.  His  orations  present  to  us  the  models  which  ap- 
proach the  nearest  to  perfection  of  all  human  productions. — 'Tilly, 
Marcus  Tullius  Cicero. — *  Horace,  the  Roman  poet,  born  on  the  8th  of 
December,  b.  c.  65,  and  died  on  the  19th  of  November,  b.  ^.  8.— •  Lu- 
crh'  ti  us,  an  eminent  philosopher  and  poet,  bom  at  Ilome  about  96  b  c, 
and  said  to  have  died  by  his  own  hands  in  the  forty-fourth  yenr  of  Ula 
ago,  about  62. 


THE    POtrriC    B^ACULTY.  147 

and  i.lustration.  He  lias  a  great  deal  of  enthusiasm  and  cc  arage,  as  is  shown 
by  his  discourse  on  the  "  True  Grandeur  of  Nations."  On  the  death  of  Judge 
Storj',  in  1845,  he  was  offered  the  vacant  seat  on  the  bench  of  the  Supreme 
Court  of  the  United  States,  which  hom)r  he  persisted  m  declining.  He  was 
elected  to  the  Senate  of  the  United  States  in  1851,  to  fill  the  vacaucj'  created  by 
the  resignation  of  Daniel  Webster. 


32.   The  Poetic  Faculty. 

1.  "  fJlHREE  little  ships  I  saw  come  ap  tlie  steep 

-A-   Far  out  at  sea :  they  nearer  drew  to  shore : 
I  saw  him  land  with  glad,  exulting  leap, 

Who  found  this  new  world  for  mankind  once  more : 
Stretching  upon  thy  thought  so  far  away, 
It  lies  in  my  sight  but  as  yesterday ! 

2.  "  Last  eve  I  rose  from  the  Pacific's  side, 

And  with  the  wind's  swift  pinions  to  me  lent, 
With  mighty  swoop — with  one  flighty  vast  and  wid^ 

Swept  o'er  the  bosom  of  the  Continent. 
I  saw  all  budding  fields,  all  Nature's  boast, 
Spread  like  a  flower'd  robe,  from  coast  to  coast ! 

3.  "Old  forests,  that  all  winter  stripp'd  and  bare, 

Wail'd  to  the  tempest  and  were  fill'd  with  gloom, 
Wide  desolate  wastes  that  icy  garments  wear. 

And  silent  glens — were  springing  into  bloom. 
Unnumber'd  lovely  haunts  not  known  to  men, 
As  one  bower  waken  into  life  again !" 

4.  "  In  thy  discourse,"  I  ask'd,  "  what  shall  I  find  ?" 

"  Hearken,"  the  voice  replied,  "  and  know  my  name , 
I  am  that  Spirit  of  the  deathless  mind, 

Which  men  do  worship  when  they  thirst  for  fame. 
I  am  that  Genius,  given  but  to  few. 
Which  yet,  all  never  cease  to  seek  and  woo. 

5.  "  This  is  the  lesson  my  discourse  would  teach. 

That  though  my  vision  pierceth  through  all  time, 
Though  to  the  gates  of  heaven  my  pinions  reach, 
Though  I  may  lift  thy  name  to  heights  sublime, 


148  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Y6t  all  these  gifts,  though  they  do  seem  to  Uess, 
Can  not  alone  bring  thee  true  happiness. 

6.  "Each  rational  soul — each  insect  of  the  air, 

Each  sparrow  midst  a  summers  forest  leaves, 
Hath  its  appointed  place.     He  form'd  them  there, 

Whose  purpose  lives  in  every  thing  that  breathes. 
Thee,  also,  to  thy  task  He  now  would  bring. 
Prepared  by  gifts — humbled  by  suffering !"         Gold  Pen. 

Gold  Pen.  This  assumed  name  is  prefixed  to  a  volume  of  poems  on  various 
subjects,  recently  published.  Tiie  author  will  be  sure  to  be  received  with  favor 
whenever  he  pleases  to  lay  aside  his  disguise. 


33.   Return  of  Columbus. 

IN  the  spring  of  1493,  while  the  court  was  still  at  Barcelona, 
letters  were  received  from  Christopher  Columbus,  announcing 
his  return  to  Spain,  and  the  successful  achievement  of  his  great 
enterprise,  by  the  discovery  of  land  beyond  the  western  ocean. 
Tha*^  delight  and  astonishment,  raised  by  this  intelligence,  were 
proportioned  to  the  skepticism  wifli  which  his  project  had  been 
originally  viewed.  The  sovereigns^  were  now  filled  with  a 
natural  impatience  to  ascertain  the  extent  and  other  particulars 
of  the  important  discovery ;  and  they  transmitted  instant  instruc- 
tions to  the  admiral  to|^pair  to  Barcelona,  as  soon  as  he  should 
have  made  the  preHminary  arrangements  for  the  further  prose- 
cution of  his  enterprise. 

2.  The  great  navigator  had  succeeded,  as  is  well  known,  after 
a  voyage,  the  natural  difficulties  of  which  had  been  much  aug- 
mented by  the  distrust  and  mutinous  spirit  of  his  followers,  in 
descrying  land  on  Friday,  the  12th  of  October,  1492  After 
some  months  spent  in  exploring  the  delightful  regions,  now  for 
the  first  time  thrown  open  to  the  eyes  of  a  European,  he  em- 
barked in  the  month  of  January,  1493,  for  Spain.  One  of  his 
vessels  had  previously  foundered,  and  another  had  deserted  him 
80  that  he  was  left  alone  to  retrace  his  course  across  the 
Atlantic. 

'  Barcelona  (bar  sh,  \h'  n&). — '  Sovereign  (8&v'or  in) 


RETURN    OF    COLUMBUS.  149 

3.  After  a  most  tempestuous  voyage,  he  was  compelled  to  take 
shelter  in  the  Tagus,  sorely  against  his  inclination.  He  expe 
rienced,  how3ver,  the  most  honorable  reception  from  the  Portu 
giiese  monarch,  John  the  Second,  who  did  ample  justice  to  thi 
great  qualities  of  Columbus,  although  he  had  failed  to  profit  b} 
them.  After  a  brief  delay,  the  admiral  resumed  his  voyage,  and 
ci'ossing  the  bar  of  Saltes,  entered  the  harbor  of  Palos  aboul 
noon,  on  the  loth  of  March,  1493,  being  exactly  seven  monthi 
and  eleven  days  since  his  departure  fi'om  that  port. 

4.  Great  was  the  agitation  in  the  little  community  of  Palos, 
as  they  beheld  the  well-known  vessel  of  the  admiral  reentering 
their  harbor.  Their  desponding  imaginations  Iiad  long  since 
consigned  him  to  a  watery  grave ;  for,  in  additiua  to  the  preter- 
natural horrors  which  hung  over  the  voyage,  they  had  expe- 
rienced the  most  stonny  and  disastrous  winter  within  the  recol- 
lection of  the  oldest  mariners.  Most  of  them  had  relatives  or 
friends  on  board.  They  thronged  immediately  to  the  shore,  to 
assure  themselves  with  their  own  eyes  of  the  truth  of  their  return. 

5.  When  they  beheld  their  faces  once  more,  and  saw  them 
accompanied  by  the  numerous  evidences  which  they  brought 
back  of  the  success  of  the  expedition,  they  burst  forth  in  accla- 
mations of  joy  and  gratulation.  They  awaited  the  landing  of 
Columbus,  when  the  whole  population  of  the  place  accompanied 
him  and  his  crew  to  the  principal  church,  where  solemn  thanks- 
givings were  offered  up  for  their  return ;  while  every  bell  in  tJie 
village  sent  forth  a  joyous  peal  in  honor  of  the  glorious  event. 

6.  The  admiral  was  too  desirous  of  presenting  himself  before 
the  sovereigns,  to  protract  his  stay  long  at  Palos.  He  took  wifli 
him  on  his  journey  specimens  of  the  multifarious  products  of  the 
newly-discovered  regions.  He  was  accompanied  by  several  of 
the  native  islanders,  arrayed  in  their  simple  barbaric  costume', 
and  decorated,  as  he  passed  through  the  principal  cities,  wifli 
collars,  bracelets,  and  other  ornaments  of  gold,  rudely  fashioned  : 
lie  exhibited,  also,  considerable  quantities  of  the  same  metal  in 
dust,  or  in  crude  masses,  numerous  vegetable  exotics,*  possessed 
of  aromatic'  or  medicinal  virtue,  and  several  kinds  of  quadrupeds 

'Exotic  (egz6t'ik\  a  foreign  plant  or  production. — 'AromAt'ic, 
epicy  ;  fragrant. 


150  NATIONAL    FIFfH    BfiADEK. 

unknown  in  Europe,  and  birds,  whose  varieties  of  gaudy  pla- 
mage  gave  a  brilliant  effect  to  the  pageant.' 

7.  The  admiral's  progress  through  the  country  was  every- 
where impeded  by  the  multitudes  thronging  forth  to  gaze  at  the 
extraordinary^  spectacle,  and  the  more  extraordinary  m:in,  who, 
in  the  emphatic  language  of  that  time,  which  has  now  lost  \ti- 
force  from  its  familiarity,  first  revealed  the  existence  of  a  "  New 
World."  As  he  passed  through  the  busy,  populous  city  oi 
Sev'ille,  every  window,  bal'cony,  and  housetop,  which  could 
afford  a  glimpse  of  him,  is  described  to  have  been  crowded  witb 
spectators. 

8.  It  was  the  middle  of  April  before  Columbus  reached  Bar- 
celona. The  nobility  and  cavaliers  in  attendance  on  the  court, 
together  wifli  the  authorities  of  the  city,  came  to  the  gates  to 
receive  him,  and  escorted  him  to  the  royal  presence.  Ferdinand 
and  Isabella  were  seated,  with  their  son.  Prince  John,  under  a 
superb  canopy  of  state,  awaiting  his  arrival.  On  his  approach, 
they  rose  from  their  seats,  and  extending  their  hands  to  him  to 
salute,  caused  him  to  be  seated  before  them. 

9.  These  were  unprecedented  marks  of  condescension  to  a 
person  of  Columbus's  rank,  in  the  haughty  and  ceremonious 
court  of  Castile.  It  was,  iiideed,  the  proudest  moment  in  the 
life  of  Columbus.  He  had  fully  established  the  truth  of  his 
long-contested  theory,  in  the  face  of  argument,  sophistry,  sneer, 
skepticism,  and  contempt.  He  had  achieved  this,  not  by 
chance,  but  by  calculation,  supported  through  the  most  adverse 
circumstances  by  consiim'mate  conduct.  The  honors  paid 
him,  which  had  hitherto  been  reserved  only  for  rank,  or  fortune, 
or  military  success,  purchased  by  the  blood  and  tears  of  thou- 
sands, were,  in  his  case,  a  homage  to  intellectual  power,  success- 
fully exerted  in  behalf  of  the  noblest  interests  of  humanity. 

10.  After  a  brief  interval,  the  sovereigns  requested  from 
Columbus  a  recital  of  his  adventures.  His  manner  was  sedate 
and  dignified,  but  warmed  by  the  glow  of  natural  enthusiasm. 
He  enumerated  the  several  islands  which  he  had  visited,  expa- 
tiated on  the  temperate  character  of  the  climate,  and  the  capacity 


*  Pageant   (pi'jent),   h  8pect{icle  ;    pompous  show.— 'Extraordinary 
(eks  trii-'do  nai*). 


RETURN    OF    COLUMBUS.  151 

of  the  soil  for  every  variety  of  agricultural  production j  appealing 
to  the  samples  imported  by  liim,  as  evidence  of  their  natural 
fraitfulness.  He  dwelt  more  at  large  on  the  precious  metals  to 
be  found  in  these  islands,  which  he  inferred,  less  from  the  speci- 
mens actually  obtained,  than  from  the  uniform  testimony  of  the 
natives  to  their  abundance  in  the  unexplored  regions  of  the  in- 
terior. Lastly  he  pointed  out  the  wide  scope  afforded  to 
Christian  zeal,  in  the  illumination  of  a  race  of  men,  whose 
Diinds,  far  from  being  wedded  to  any  system  of  idolatry,  were 
prepared,  by  their  extreme  simplicity,  for  the  reception  of  pure 
and  un corrupted  doctrine. 

11.  The  last  consideration  touched  Isabella's  heart  most  sensi- 
bly ;  and  the  whole  audience,  kindled  with  various  emotions  by 
the  speaker's  eloquence,  filled  up  the  perspective  with  the  gor- 
geous coloring  of  their  own  fancies,  as  ambition,  or  avarice,  or 
devotional  feeling  predominated  in  their  bosoms.  "When  Colum- 
bus ceased,  the  king  and  queen,  together  with  all  present,  pros- 
trated themselves  on  their  knees  in  grateful  thanksgivings,  while 
the  solemn  strains  of  the  Te  Deum'  were  poured  forth  by  the 
choir  of  the  royal  chapel,  as  in  commemoration  of  some  glorious 
victory.  William  H.  Prkscott. 

William  H.  Prescott,  the  eminent  historian,  was  born  in  Salem,  Massachu- 
setts, on  the  4th  of  May,  1796.  His  father,  WiUiam  Prescott,  LL.  D.,  a  distin- 
guished lawyer  and  judge,  noted  for  intellectual  and  moral  worth,  died  in  the 
l:isl  month  of  1844,  at  the  advanced  age  of  84.  His  grandfather  was  the  cele- 
fjrated  Colonel  William  Prescott,  who  commanded  the  American  forces  at  Bun- 
1  er  Hill  on  the  memorable  17th  of  June,  1775.  But  Mr.  Prescott  needs  none  of 
(iie  pride  of  ancestry  to  stamp  him  as  one  of  nature's  noblemen.  An  untoward 
accident  in  college,  by  which  he  lost  the  sight  of  one  eye,  and  the  sympathy 
f-.is^pquently  excited  in  the  other,  have  rendered  him  almost  totally  blind;  but, 
notwithstanding,  his  indefatigable  industry,  united  with  fine  taste  and  a  well- 
hfred  mind,  has  elevated  him  to  the  highest  rank  in  that  ditiicult  department, 
h  .Nt«jrical  composition.  Indeed,  it  is  the  concurrent  judgment  of  the  best  European 
critics  that  he  has  no  superior,  if  he  has  an  equal,  among  contemporary  historians 
I  i  is  first  work,  "  Ferdinand  and  Isabella,"  was  published  in  the  beginning  of  18:58 
aiiid  was  soon  republished  in  nearly  all  the  great  cities  of  Europe.  That,  with 
iiis  second  work,  "The  Conquest  ef  Mexico,"  are  not  only  among  the  tiur^l 
rno<i')ls  of  historical  composition,  but  in  a  very  genuine  sense  they  are  natinntd 
works.  The  choicest  words  of  panegyric  can  not  do  injustice  to  the  exquisite 
"  Ijeduty  of  Mr.  Prescott's  descriptions,  the  just  proportion  and  dramatic  interest 
ol  his  narrative,  his  skill  as  a  character  writer,  the  expansiveness  and  completo- 


^  Te  Deum  (te  d^'  urn),  a  hymn  of  thanksgiving,  so  called  from  the 
first  words,  "  Te  Deum  lavdanius,"  Thee,  God,  we  praise. 


152  NATIONAL   FIFTH    READER. 

ness  of  liis  views,  and  that  careful  and  intelligent  reseeirch  which  enabled  liini 
to  make  his  works  as  valuable  for  their  accuracy  as  they  are  attractive  by  all 
the  graces  of  style."  In  private  hfe,  no  man  is  more  beloved  than  Mr.  Prescott. 
He  is  as  much  admired  for  his  amiability,  simpicity,  and  highbred  courtesy,  as 
for  his  remarkable  abilities  and  acquirements. 


34.   Destiny  of  America. 

1.  nriHE  Muse,  disgusted  at  an  age  and  clime 
J-   Barren  of  eveiy  glorious  theme, 

In  distant  lands  now  waits  a  better  time 
Producing  subjects  worthy  fame : 

2.  In  happy  climes,  where,  from  the  genial  sun 

And  virgin  earth,  such  scenes  ensue ; 
The  force  of  art  by  nature  seems  outdone. 
And  fancied  beauties  by  the  true : 

3.  In  happy  climes,  the  seat  of  innocence, 

Wliere  nature  guides,  and  virtue  rules ; 
Where  men  shall  not  impose  for  truth  and  sense 
The  pedantry  of  courts  and  schools : 

4.  There  shall  be  sung  another  golden  age. 

The  rise  of  empire  and  of  arts ; 
The  good  and  great  inspiring  epic  rage. 
The  wisest  heads  and  noblest  hearts. 

5.  Not  such  as  Europe  breeds  in  her  decay  : 

Such  as  she  bred  when  fresh  and  young. 
When  heavenly  flame  did  animate  her  clay, 
By  future  poets  shall  be  sung. 

6.  Westward  the  course  of  empire  takes  its  way :    • 

The  four  first  acts  already  past, 

A  fifth  shall  close  the  drama  with  the  day : 

Time's  noblest  offspring  is  the  last.  Berkeley. 

George  Berkeley,  Bishop  of  Cloyne,  was  born  at  Thomastown,  county  af 
Kilkenny,  Ireland,  in  1C84,  and  died  at  Oxford,  England,  in  1753.  He  was  the 
author  of  several  works,  principally  on  metaphysical  science.  He  visited  Amer- 
ica in  1728  for  the  purpose  of  founding  a  college  for  the  conversion  of  the  In- 
dians; but  failing  to  obtain  the  promised  funds  from  the  government,  after  ro- 
maining  seven  7'^ars  in  Rhode  Island,  he  returned  to  Euroi>e.  While  inspired 
with  his  transatlantic  mission,  he  penned  tne  aoove  fine  moral  verses,  so  trull 
prophetic  of  the  progress  of  the  United  States 


CHARAOTER   OF    LOUIS    FOURTEENTH.  153 


35.    Character  of  Louis  Fourteenth 

(CONCERNING  Louis  the  Fcurteenth,'  the  world  seems,  at  last, 
)  to  have  formed  a  correct  judgment.  He  was  not  a  great 
o'-noral ;  he  was  not  a  great  statesman  ;  but  he  was,  in  one  sense 
)!'  the  word,  a  great  king.  Never  was  there  so  consum'mate  a 
master  of  what  James  the  First  of  England  called  kingcraft ;  of 
lil  those  arts  which  most  advantageously  display  the  merits  of  a 
prnice,  and  most  completely  hide  his  defects. 

2.  Though  his  internal  administration  was  bad ;  though  the 
militaiy  triumphs  which  gave  splendor  to  the  early  part  of  his 
reign  were  not  achieved  by  himself;  though  his  later  years  were 
€rowded  wifli  defects  and  humiliations ;  though  he  was  so  igno- 
rant that  h«  scarcely  understood  the  Latin  of  his  mass-book ; 
though  he  fell  under  the  control  of  a  cunning  Jesuit,  and  of  a 
more  cunning  old  woman ;  he  succeeded  in  passing  himself  off 
on  his  people  as  a  being  above  humanity.  And  this  is  the  more 
-extraordinary^  because  he  did  not  seclude  himself  from  the  public 
gaze,  like  Aose  Oriental  despots  whose  faces  are  never  seen,  and 
whose  very  names  it  is  a  crime  to  pronounce  lightly. 

3.  It  has  been  said,  that  no  man  is  a  hero  to  his  val'et ;  and 
all  the  world  saw  as  much  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth  as  his  valet 
€ould  see.  Five  hundred  people  assembled  to  see  him  shave  and 
put  on  his  clothes  in  the  morning.  He  then  kneeled  down  at 
the  side  of  his  bed,  and  said  his  prayers,  while  the  whole  assem- 
bly awaited  the  end  in  solemn  silence,  the  ecclesiastics  on  their 
tnees,  and  the  laymen  with  their  hats  before  their  faces.  He 
walked  about  his  gardens  with  a  train  of  two  hundred  courtiers 
at  his  heels.  All  Versailles  came  to  see  him  dine  and  sup.  He 
was  put  to  bed  at  night,  in  the  midst  of  a  crowd  as  great  as  that 
which  had  met  to  see  him  rise  in  the  morning.  He  took  his 
very  emetics  in  state,  and  vomited  majestically  in  the  presence 
of  all  his  nobles.  Yet,  though  he  constantly  exposed  himself  to 
the  public  gaze,  in  situations  in  which  it  is  scarcely  possible  for 
any  man  to  preserve  much  personal  dignity,  he,  to  the  last,  im- 


*  Louis  the  Fourteenth,  who  was  but  four  years  of  age  when  he  aa- 
•cended  the  throne,  reigned  from  1643  to  1715. 


154:  NATIONAL   FEFTH   READEB. 

pressed  those  who  surrounded  him  with  the  deepest  awe  and 
reverence. 

4.  The  iHusion'  which  he  produced  on  his  worshipers,  can  be 
compared  only  to  those  illusions  to  which  lovers  are  proverbially 
subject  during  the  season  of  courtship.  It  was  an  illusion  which 
aflfected  even  the  senses.  The  contemporaries'*  of  Louis  thought 
him  tall.  Voltaire,'  who  might  have  seen  him,  and  who  bad 
lived  wifli  some  of  the  most  distinguished  members  of  his  court, 
speaks  repeatedly  of  his  majestic  stature.  Yet  it  is  as  certain  as 
any  fact  can  be,  that  he  was  rather  below  than  above  the  mid- 
dle size. 

5.  He  had,  it  seems,  a  way  of  holding  himself,  a  way  of  walk- 
ing, a  way  of  swelling  his  chest  and  rearing  his  head,  which  de- 
ceived the  eyes  of  the  multitude.  Eighty  years  after  his  death, 
the  royal  cemetery  was  violated  by  the  revolutionists ;  his  coffin 
was  opened ;  his  body  was  dragged  out ;  and  it  appeared  that 
the  prince  whose  majestic  figure  had  been  so  long  and  loudly 
extolled,  was  in  truth  a  little  man. 

6.  His  person  and  government  have  had  the  same  fate.  He 
had  the  art  of  making  both  appear  grand  and  august,  in  spite  of 
the  clearest  evidence  that  both  were  below  the  ordinary  standard. 
Death  and  time  have  exposed  both  the  deceptions.  The  body 
of  the  great  king  has  been  measured  more  justly  than  it  was 
measured  by  the  courtiers,  who  were  afraid  to  look  above  his 
shoe-tie.  His  public  character  has  been  scrutinized  by  men  free 
from  the  hopes  and  fears  of  Boileau'*  and  Moliere.*  In  the  grave, 
the  most  majestic  of  princes  is  only  five  feet  eight.  In  history, 
the  hero  and  the  politician  dwindle  into  a  vain  and  feeble  tyrant, 
the  slave  of  priests  and  women,  little  in  war,  little  in  government, 
little  in  every  thing  but  the  art  of  simulating  greatness. 


*  II  li' sion,  false  show  by  which  one  may  be  distippoiuted  ;  deceptive 
appearance. — '  Con  t6m' po  ra  ries,  per^:ons  li  ving  at  the  same  time  — 
"  Voltaire,  the  assumed  name  of  Francois  Marie  Arouet,  a  distinguished 
French  poet,  novelist,  historian,  and  philosopher,  born  at  a  viOage  near 
Paris,  in  1694,  and  died  at  Paris  in  177b\ — *  Boileau,  a  distinguished 
French  poet  and  satirist,  born  in  1G36,  and  died  in  1711. — *  Mom  Are, 
tlie  assumed  name  of  Jean  Baptiste  Poquelin,  a  poet,  actor,  and  drama- 
tist, celebrated  as  the  best  comic  writer  of  Fiance,  born  in  Paris,  in 
IG20.  and  died  in  1G73. 


QUEEN    ELIZABETH.  155 

7.  He  left  to  his  infant  successor  a  famished  and  miserable 
people,  a  beaten  and  humble  army,  provinces  turned  into  deserts 
by  misgovernment  and  persecution,  factions  dividing  the  army, 
H  schism'  raging  in  the  court,  an  immense  debt,  an  innumerable 
household,  inestimable  jewels  and  furniture.  All  the  sap  and 
nutriment  of  the  State  seemed  to  have  been  drawn,  to  feed  one 
bloated  and  unwholesome  excrescence.' 

8.  The  nation  was  withered.  The  court  was  morbidly  tioiii- 
ishing.  Yet,  it  does  not  appear  that  the  associations  which 
attached  the  people  to  the  monarchy  had  lost  strength  during 
his  reign.  He  had  neglected  or  sacrificed  their  dearest  interests, 
but  he  had  struck  their  imaginations.  The  very  things  which 
ought  to  have  made  him  unpopular,  the  prodigies  of  luxury  and 
magnificence  wi6i  which  his  person  was  surrounded,  while,  be- 
yond the  inclosure  of  his  parks,  nothing  was  to  be  seen  but  sttir- 
vation  and  despair,  seemed  to  increase  the  respectful  attachment 
which  his  people  felt  for  him.  T.  B,  Macaulay. 

Thomas  Babbington  Macaulay,  the  most  attractive,  and  one  of  the  most  learn- 
ed and  eloquent  of  the  essayists  and  critics  of  the  age.  He  was  educated  at  the 
University  of  Cambridge,  England,  where  he  took  his  degree  in  1822,  after  hav- 
ing achieved  the  highest  honors  of  the  university.  After  leaving  the  university, 
h'y  studied  law  at  Lincoln's  Inn,  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1826.  He  lias 
been  distinguished  in  politics,  as  an  orator  in  parliament,  and  as  an  able  othcer 
of  the  Supreme  Council  in  Calcutta,  India.  He  returned  to  England  in  1838, 
and  a  few  years  later  was  elected  Lord  Rector  of  the  University  of  Glasgow. 
He  is  very  meritorious  as  a  poet ;  but  his  poetical  merit  dwindles  into  insiguili- 
cance  m  comparison  with  the  unrivaled  brilliancy  of  his  prose.  His  "  Essays  from 
the  Edinburgh  Review"  have  been  published  in  three  volumes.  They  have  at- 
tained a  greater  popularity  than  any  other  contributions  to  the  periodical  works 
of  the  day.  His  last  publication,  the  "  History  of  England,"  is  written  in  a  style 
ot  great  clearness,  force,  and  eloquence,  and  is  as  popular  among  ail  classes  aa 
any  history  of  the  present  century. 


36.  Queen  Elizabeth. 

'HERE  are  few  great  personages  in  history  who  have  ber-ii 
more  exposed  to  the  calumny^  of  enemies,  and  the  adulation"* 


*  Schism  (s!z'm),  a  di\'ision  in  a  party  or  church. — ^  Ex  cr§s'  cence,  that 
wliich  grows  unnaturally,  and  without  use,  out  of  something  else. — 
CM'  um  ny,  slander ;    the   utterance  of  a  false  and  malicious  report 
against  the  reputation  of  another. — *  Ad  u  li'  tion.  Bervilo  flattery. 


166  NATIONAL   FTBTH    JiEADER. 

of  friends,  than  Queen  Elizabeth ;'  and  y6t  there  scarcely  is  any 
whose  reputation  has  been  more  certainly  determined  by  the 
unanimous  consent  of  posterity.  The  unusual  length  of  her  ad- 
ministration, and  the  strong  features  of  her  character,  were  able 
to  overcome  all  prejudices ;  and,  obliging  her  detractors  to  abate 
much  of  their  invectives,  and  her  admirers  somewhat  of  their 
[)anegyr'ics,''  have,  at  last,  in  spite  of  political  factions,  and,  what 
is  moT-e,  of  religious  animosities,  produced  a  uniform  judgment 
wifli  regard  to  her  conduct. 

2.  Few  sovereigns  of  England'  succeeded  to  the  throne  in 
more  difficult  circumstances ;  and  none  ever  conducted  the  gov. 
ernment  wifli  such  uniform  success  and  felicity.  Though  unac- 
quainted with  the  practice  of  toleration,  the  true  secret  for  man- 
aging religious  factions,  she  preserved  her  people,  by  her  supe- 
rior prudence,  from  those  confusions  in  which  theological  con- 
troversy had  involved  all  the  neighboring  nations ;  and  though 
her  enemies  were  the  most  powerful  princes  of  Europe, — the 
most  active,  the  most  enterprising,  the  least  scrupulous, — she 
was  able,  by  her  vigor,  to  make  deep  impressions  on  their  States. 
Her  own  greatness,  meanwhile,  remained  unimpaired. 

3.  The  wise  ministers  and  brave  warriors  who  flourished  un- 
der her  reign  share  the  praise  of  her  success ;  but,  instead  of 
lessening  the  applause  due  to  her,  they  make  great  addition  to 
it.  They  owed,  all  of  them,  their  advancement  to  her  choice ; 
they  were  supported  by  her  constancy ;  and,  wiSi  all  their  abil- 
ities, they  were  never  able  to  acquire  any  undue  ascendant  over 
her.  In  her  family,  in  her  court,  in  her  kingdom,  she  remained 
equally  mistress ;  the  force  of  the  tender  passions  was  great  over 
her,  but  the  force  of  her  mind  was  still  superior ;  and  the  com- 
bat which  her  victory  visibly  cost  her  serves  only  to  display  the 
firmness  of  her  resolution,  and  the  loftiness  of  her  ambitious 
sentiments. 

4.  The  fame  of  this  princess,  though  it  has  surmounted  the 
[)rfcjudices  both  of  faction  and  bigotry,  yet  lies  still  exposed  to 
another  prejudice,  which  is  more  durable,  because  more  natural, 
and  which,  according  to  the  difterent  views  in  which  we  survey 


'  QuBKN  Elizabeth  reigned  in  England  from  1568  to  1G03.— ■  Panegyric 
'tmli*  e  jlr'  ik),  formal  praise.—*  England  (fng'glard). 


THE  KING   AND   THE  NIGHTINGALES.  157 

her,  is  capable  either  of  exalting  beyond  measure,  or  diminish- 
ing the  luster  of  her  character.  This  prejudice  is  founded  on 
the  consideration  of  her  sex. 

5.  When  we  contem 'plate  her  as  a  woman,  we  are  apt  to  be 
sti'iick  wifli  the  highest  admiration  of  her  great  qualities  and  ex- 
ton?!  ve  capacity ;  but  we  arc  also  apt  to  require  some  more  soft- 
.  ss  of  disposition,  some  greater  lenity  of  temper,  some  of  thos'.e 
!  I  liable  weaknesses  by  which  her  sex  is  distinguished.  But  the 
line  method  6f  estimating  her  merit  is,  to  lay  aside  all  these 
considerations,  and  consider  her  merely  as  a  rational  being, 
placed  in  authority,  and  intrusted  with  the  government  of  man- 
kind. David  Hume. 

David  Hume,  or  Home,  as  the  name  was  originally  spelt,  one  of  the  most  cele- 
brated historiems  and  philosophers  of  Great  Britain,  was  bom  at  Edinburgh,  Scot- 
land, April  26th,  1711.  At  the  early  age  of  fifteen  he  was  sent  to  the  University  of 
Edinburgh,  where  he  passed  a  coiuse  of  study  with  unusual  success.  So  fully  was 
he  possessed,  even  at  that  early  age,  with  an  intense  love  of  literature,  and  tha 
ambition  of  literary  distinction  which  was  the  ruling  passion  of  his  Ufe,  that  they 
overmastered  every  thing  in  the  shape  of  pleasure  or  interest,  that  could  be 
brought  into  competition  with  them.  His  first  work,  "Treatise  of  Human 
Nature,"  was  completed  by  his  twenty-fifth  year,  and  published  in  London,  in 
1737,  This,  as  the  production  of  so  young  a  mind,  must  certainly  be  regarded  as 
a  prodigy  of  metaphysical  acuteness.  The  last  volumes  of  his  "  History  of 
England,"  or  rather  the  first,  as  it  was  published  in  the  retrograde  coiuse, 
appeared  in  1761,  His  fame  as  a  philosopher  rests  rather  on  what  he  weis  capa- 
ble of,  than  of  what  he  achieved ;  and,  as  a  historian,  he  is  much  more  indebted 
for  his  success  to  his  manner,  or  style,  than  to  his  matter.  Though  liis  "  History 
of  England"  is  everywhere  disfigured  with  gross  defects,  inaccuracies,  and  preju- 
dices, still  the  narrative  is  so  lucid,  the  grouping  so  admirable,  the  reflections  so 
unforced  and  natural — comtlining  so  much  of  flexible  grace  and  natural  dignity — 
that  it  will  ever  stand  high  in  the  estimation  of  every  cultivated  taste.  The 
private  character  of  Mr,  Hume  exhibited  many  virtues.  He  was  very  amiable, 
and  well  merited  the  admiration  of  his  friends.  Though  a  confirmed  skeptic, 
the  j)hilosophic  fortitude  and  tranquillity  of  his  death,  which  occurred  in  August, 
1776,  is  well  attested.    This,  however,  is  truly  a  rare  phenomenon. 


37.  The  King  and  the  Nightingales. 

1.  T7"ING  Edward  dwelt  at  Havering-atte-Bower' — 
-lA.  Old,  and  enfeebled  by  the  weight  of  power — 

»  Havering-atte-Bower,  Li  Essex,  was  the  favorite  retirement  of  King 
Edward  the  Confessor,  who  so  delighted  in  its  solitary  woods,  that  he 
shut  himself  up  in  them  for  weeks  at  a  time.  Old  legends  say  that  he 
met  with  but  one  annoyance  in  that  pleasant  seclusion — the  continual 


158  NATIONAL    FIFl'U    READER. 

Sick  of  the  troublous  majesty  of  kings — 
Weary  of  duty  and  all  mortal  things — 
Weary  of  day — weary  of  night — forlorn — 
Cursing,  like  Job,'  the  hour  that  he  was  bona; 
Thick  woods  environ'd  him,  and  in  their  shade 
He  roam'd  all  day,  and  told  his  beads,  and  prayM. 
Men's  faces  pain'd  him,  and  he  barr'd  his  door 
That  none  might  find  him ; — even  the  sunshine  bore 
No  warmth  or  comfort  to  his  wretched  sight ; 
And  darkness  pleased  no  better  than  the  light. 

2.  He  scorn'd  himself  for  eating  food  like  men, 
And  lived  on  roots^  and  water  from  the  fen ; 
And  aye  he  groan'd,  and  bow'd  his  hoary  head — 
Did  penance,  and  put  nettles  in  his  bed — 

Wore  sackcloth  on  his  loins,  and  smote  his  breast — 

Told  all  his  follies,  all  his  sins  confess'd — 

Made  accusations  of  himself  to  Heaven, 

And  own'd  to  crimes  too  great  to  be  forgiven, 

Which  he  had  thought,  although  he  had  not  done — 

Blackening  his  blackness ;  numbering  one  by  one 

Unheard-of  villanies  without  a  name, 

As  if  he  gloried  in  inventing  shame, 

Or  thought  to  win  the  grace  of  Heaven  by  lies, 

And  gain  a  saintship  in  a  fiend's  disguise. 

3.  Long  in  these  woods  he  dwelt — a  wretched  raan, 
Shut  from  all  fellowship,  self-placed  in  ban — 
Laden  with  ceaseless  prayer  and  boastful  vows, 
Which  day  and  night  he  breathed  beneafh  the  boughs. 
But  sore  distress'd  he  was,  and  wretched  quite, 

For  every  evening  with  the  waning  light 
A  choir  of  nightingales,  the  brakes  among, 

warbling  of  the  nightingales,  pouring  such  floods  of  music  upon  his  eai 
during  his  midnight  meditations,  as  to  disturb  his  devotions.  He  there- 
fore prayed  that  never  more  within  the  bounds  of  that  forest  might 
nightingale's  song  be  heard.  His  prayer,  adds  the  legend,  was  granted. 
The  following  versification  of  the  story  shows  a  diflferent  result  to  his 
prayers — a  result  which,  if  it  contradict  tradition,  does  not,  it  is  pro- 
«ume<1   contradict  poetical  justice. — >  See  Job,  chap,  iii.— •  R&ot. 


rmc    KING    AND    THE   NIGHTINGALES.  159 

Deluged  the  woods  with  overflow  of  song. 

"  Unholy  birds,"  he  said,  "  your  throats  be  riven, 

You  mar  my  prayers,  you  take  my  thoughts  from  heaven.** 

4.  But  still  the  song,  magnificent  and  loud, 

Pour'd  from  the  trees  like  rain  fi'om  thunder-cloud. 

Now  to  his  vexM  and  melancholy  ear 

Sounding  like  bridal  music,  pealing  clear 

Anon  it  deepen'd  on  his  throbbing  brain 

To  full  triumphal  march  or  battle  strain  * 

Then  seem'd  to  vary  to  a  choral  hymn, 

Or  De  Projundis^  from  cathedral  dim, 

"  Te  De'um^''  or  "  Hosanna  to  the  Lord^^ 

Chanted  by  deep-voiced  priests  in  full  accord. 

5.  He  shut  his  e^rs,  he  stamped  upon  the  sod — 

"  Be  ye  accursed,  ye  take  my  thoughts  from  God 

And  thou,  beloved  saint,  to  whom  I  bend, 

Lamp  of  my  life,  my  guardian  and  friend, 

Make  intercession  for  me,  sweet  St.  John, 

And  hear  the  anguish  of  thy  suflfering  son. 

May  nevermore  within  these  woods  be  heard 

The  song  of  morning  or  of  evening  bird, 

May  nevermore  their  harmonies  awake 

Within  the  precincts  of  this  lonely  brake, 

For  I  am  weary,  old,  and  full  of  woe. 

And  their  songs  vex  me.     This  one  boon  bestow, 

That  I  may  pray ;  and  give  my  thoughts  to  thee, 

Without  distraction  of  their  melody ; 

And  that  within  these  bowers  my  groans  and  sighs 

And  ceaseless  prayers  be  all  the  sounds  that  rise. 

Let  God  alone  possess  me,  last  and  first ; 

And,  for  His  sake,  be  all  these  birds  accursed." 

^.  This  having  said,  he  started  where  he  stood, 
And  saw  a  stranger  walking  in  the  wood ; 
A  purple  glory,  pale  as  amethyst,^ 

*  Pe  profundis,  the  Latin  commencement  of  a  psalm,  which  bas  given 
its  name  to  the  psalm  itself. — '  Am'e  thyst,  a  precious  stone  of  a  violet 
blue  colot. 


160  NATIONAL   UtTH    READEB. 

Clad  him  all  o'er.     He  knew  the  Evangelist*,' 
And,  kneeling  on  the  earth  with  reverence  meet, 
He  kiss'd  his  garment's  hem,  and  clasp'd  his  feet. 

1,  "  Rise,"  said  the  saint,  "  and  know,  unhappy  king, 
That  true  Religion  hates  no  living  thing : 
It  loves  the  sunlight,  loves  the  face  of  man. 
And  takes  all  virtuous  pleasure  that  it  can — 
Shares  in  each  harmless  joy  that  Nature  gives, 
Bestows  its  sympathy  on  all  that  lives. 
Sings  wifli  the  bird,  rejoices  with  the  bee, 
And,  wise  as  manhood,  sports  with  infancy. 
Let  not  the  nightingales  disturb  thy  prayers, 
But  make  thy  thanksgiving  as  pure  as  theirs ; 
So  shall  it  mount  on  wings  of  love  to  Heaven, 
And  thou,  forgiving,  be  thyself  forgiven." 

8.  The  calm  voice  ceased ; — King  Edward  dared  not  look, 
But  bent  to  earth,  and  blush'd  at  the  rebuke ; 
And  though  he  closed  his  eyes  and  hid  his  face, 
He  knew  the  saint  had  vanish'd  from  the  place. 
And  when  he  rose,  ever  the  wild  woods  ranof 
With  the  sweet  song  the  birds  of  evening  sang. 
No  more  he  cursed  them ;  loitering  on  his  way 
He  listen'd  pleased,  and  bless'd  them  for  their  lay ; 
And  on  the  morrow  quitted  Havering 
To  mix  with  men,  and  be  again  a  king, 
And  fasting,  moaning,  scorning,  praying  less. 
Increased  in  virtue  and  in  happiness.       Chables  Mackay.* 


38.  The  Good  Wife. 

THE  heart  of  a  man,  wifli  whom  affection  is  not  a  name,  ana 
love  a  mere  passion  of  the  hour,  yearns'  toward  the  quiet  oi 
a  home,  as  toward  the  g5al  of  his  earthly"  joy  and  hope.     And 

»  E  vin'  gel  ist,  one  of  the  writers  of  Gospel  histoiy ;  one  who  preach- 
es the  Gospel.— 'See  Biogiaphical  Sketch,  p.  91  .—*  Yfiom. -*  Earthly 
(firth'  II). 


THE    GOOD   WIFE.  161 

as  you  fasten'  there'  your  thought,  an  indulgent,  yet  dreamy 
fancy  paints  the  loved  image  that  is  to  adorn^  it,  and  to  make  it 
sacred. 

2.  She  is  there  to  bid  you — God  speed !  and  an  adieu,  that 
hangs  like  music  on  your  ear,  as  you  go  out  to  the  every-day 
labor  of  life.  At  evening,  she  is  there  to  greet  you,  as  you  come 
back  wearied  wifli  a  day's  toil ;  and  her  look  so  full  of  gladness, 
cheats  you  of  your  fatigue ;  and  she  steals  her  arm  around  you^ 
with  a  soul  of  welcome,  that  beams  like  sunshine  on  her  brow 
and  that  fills  your  eye  with  tears  of  a  twin  gratitude — ^to  her^ 
and  Heaven. 

3.  She  is  not  unmindful  of  those  old-fashioned  virtues  of  clean- 
liness and  of  order,  which  give  an  air**  of  quiet,  and  which  secure 
content.  Your  wants  are  all  anticipated ;  the  fire  is  burning-' 
brightly ;  the  clean  hearth®  flashes  under  the  joyous  blaze ;  the 
old  elbow-chair'  is  in  its  place.  Your  very  unworthiness  of  all 
this  haunts^  you  like  an  accusing  spirit,  and  yet  penetrates  your 
heart  wifli  a  new  devotion,  toward  the  loved  one  who  is  thus 
watchful  of  your  comfort. 

4.  She  is  gentle ; — keeping  your  love,  as  she  has  won  it,  by  a 
thousand  nameless  and  modest  virtues,  which  radiate  from  her 
whole  life  and  action.  She  steals  upon  your  aff'ections  like  a 
summer  wind  breathing  softly  over  sleeping  valleys.  She  gains 
a  mastery'  over  your  sterner'*'  nature,  by  very  contrast ;  and  wins 
you  unwittingly  to  her  lightest  wish.  And  yet  her  wishes  are 
guided  by  that  delicate  tact,  which  avoids  conflict  with  your 
manly  pride ;  she  subdues,  by  seeming  to  yield.  By  a  single 
soft  word  of  appeal,  she  robs  your  vexation  of  its  anger ;  and 
with  a  slight  touch  of  that  fair'^  hand,  and  one  pleading  look  of 
that  earnest''^  eye,  she  disarms  your  sternest  pride. 

5.  She  is  kind ; — shedding  her  kindness,  as  Heaven  sheds  dew. 
Who  indeed  could  doubt  it  ? — least  of  all,  you  who  are  living  on 
her  kindness,  day  by  day,  as  flowers  live  on  light?  There  is 
none  of  that  oflScious  parade  which  blunts  the  point  of  benevo- 
lence :  but  it  tempers  every  action  wifli  a  blessing. 

'Fasten  (fSs' sn) .—' There  (tMr).—»  Adorn  (a  dim').—*  Air  (&r).— 
•  Burning  (birn'ing) .— •  Hedrth.  ~ '  Chhir.  —  ®  Hiz/nts.  —  '  MSs'  ter  y  — 
"  Stern'er.-»»  F&ir.— "  Earnest  (Irn'est). 

11 


(6£  NATIONAL    FnTH    READER. 

6.  If  trouble  has  come  upon  you,  she  knows  that  her  voica 
beguiling  you  into  cheerfulness,  will  lay  your  fears ;  and  as  she 
draws  her  chair  beside  you,  she  knows  that  the  tender  and  con- 
fiding way  wifli  which  she  takes  your  hand,  and  looks  up  into 
your  earnest  face,  will  drive  away  from  your  annoyance  all  \U 
weight.  As  she  lingers,  leading  off  your  thought  with  pleasant 
jTords,  she  knows  well  that  she  is  redeeming  you  from  care,'  and 
doothing  you  to  that  sweet  calm,  which  such  home  and  such 
wife  can  alone  bestow. 

7.  And  in  sickness, — sickness  that  you  almost  covet  for  the 
sympathy  it  brings, — that  hand  of  hers  resting  on  your  fevered 
forehead,  or  those  fingers  playing  wifli  the  scattered  locks,  are 
more  full  of  kindness  than  the  loudest  vaunt'  of  fri jnds ;  and 
when  your  failing  strength  will  permit  no  more,  you  grasp'  that 
cherished  hand,  with  a  fullness  of  joy,  of  thankfulness,  and  of 
love,  which  your  tears  only  can  tell. 

8.  She  is  good ; — her  hopes  live  where  the  angels  live.  Her 
kindness  and  gentleness  are  sweetly  tempered  wifli  that  meek- 
ness and  forbearance  which  are  born  of  Faith.  Trust  comes  into 
her  heart  as  rivers  come  to  the  sea.  And  in  the  dark  hours  of 
doubt  and  foreboding,  you  rest  fondly  upon  her  buoyanf*  faith, 
as  the  treasure  of  your  common  life ;  and  in  your  holier  musings, 
you  look  to  that  frail  hand,  and  that  gentle  spirit,  to  lead  you 
away  from  tlie  vanities  of  worldly  ambition,  to  the  fullness  of 
that  joy  which  the  good  inherit.  D.  G.  Mitchell. 

Donald  G.  Mitchell  was  bora  in  Norwich,  Connecticut,  April,  182il.  His 
father  was  the  pastor  of  the  Congregational  church  of  that  place,  and  his  grand- 
father a  member  of  the  first  Congress  at  Philadelphia,  and  for  many  years 
Chief-justice  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  Connecticut.  Mr.  Mitchell  graduated  in 
due  course,  at  Yale,  in  1841.  His  health  being  feeble,  he  passed  the  three  fol- 
lowing years  in  the  country,  where  he  became  much  interested  in  agriculture, 
and  wrote  a  number  of  letters  to  the  "Cultivator,"  at  Albany.  He  gained  a 
silver  cup  from  the  New  York  Agricultuial  Society,  as  a  prize  for  a  plan  of  farm 
buildings.  He  next  crossed  the  ocean,  and  after  remaining  about  two  years  in 
Europe,  returned  home,  and  soon  after  published  "  Fresh  Gleanings."  In  185(i, 
aller  his  return  from  a  second  visit  to  Europe,  he  published  "The  Battle  Sum- 
mer," containing  personal  observations  in  Paris  during  the  year  1848.  He  has 
since  published  the  "  Reveries  of  a  Bachelor,"  "  Dream  Life,"  mid  "  Fudge 
Doings."  His  works  have  usually  been  well  received.  His  style  is  quiet,  pure, 
and  effective.  In  1853,  Mr.  Mitchell  received  the  appointment  of  United  States 
consul  at  Venice.    He  is  at  present  residing  in  the  viciuty  of  New  Haven. 

'  C&re  — '  Viwnt.  — » Gr&sp.— *  Buoyant  (bw4I'  ant).  u 


8CKNPJ    WrrH    A    PANTHER.  163 

39.   Sceist:  with  a  Panther. 

AS  soon  as  1  had  effected  my  dangerous  passage,  I  screened 
myself  behind  a  cliff,  and  gave  myself  up  to  reflection. 
While  thus  occupied,  my  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  opposite 
steeps.  The  tops  of  the  trees,  waving  to  and  fro  in  the  wildest 
commotion,  and  their  trunks  occasionally  h-ending  to  the  blasts 
which,  in  these  lofty  regions,  blew  wifli  a  violence  unknown  in 
the  tracts  below,  exhibited  an  awful  spectacle. 

2.  At  length  my  attention  was  attracted  by  the  trunk  which 
lay  across  the  gulf,  and  which  I  had  converted  into  a  bridge.  I 
perceived  that  it  had  already  somewhat  swerved  from  its  original 
position,  that  every  blast  broke  or  loosened  some  of  the  fibers  by 
which  its  roots  was  connected  wifh  the  opposite  bank,  and  that, 
if  the  storm  did  not  speedily  abate,  there  was  imminent  danger 
of  its  being  torn  from  the  rock  and  precipitated  into  the  chasm. 
Thus  my  retreat  would  be  cut  off,  and  the  evils  from  which  I  was 
endeavoring  to  rescue  another,  would  be  experienced  by  myself. 

3.  I  believed  my  destiny  to  hang  upon  the  expedition  wifli 
which  I  should  recross  this  gulf.  The  moments  that  were  spent 
in  these  deliberations  were  critical,  and  I  shuddered  to  observe 
that  the  trunk  was  held  in  its  place  by  one  or  two  fibers  which 
were  already  stretched  almost  to  breaking.  To  pass  al6ng  the 
trunk,  rendered  slippery  by  the  wet  and  unsteadfast  by  the 
wind,  was  eminently  dangerous.  To  maintain  my  hold  in  pass- 
ing, in  defiance  of  the  whirlwind,  required  the  most  vigorous 
exertions.  For  this  end,  it  was  necessary  to  discommode  myself 
of  my  cloak. 

4.  Just  as  I  had  disposed  of  this  encumbrance,  and  had  risen 
from  my  seat,  my  attention  was  again  called  to  the  opposite 
steep,  by  the  most  unwelcome  object  that  at  this  time  could 
possibly  present  itself.  Something  was  perceived  moving  among 
the  bushes  and  rocks,  which,  for  a  time,  I  hoped  was  no  more 
than  a  raccoon  or  opossum,  but  which  presently  appeared  to  be 
a  panther.  His  gray  coat,  extended  claws,  fiery  eyes,  and  a  cry 
which  he  at  that  moment  uttered,  and  which,  by  its  resemblance 
to  the  human  voice,  is  peculiarly  terrific,  denoted  him  to  be  the 
most  ferocious  and  untamable  of  that  detested  race. 

5.  The  in'dustry  of  our  hunters  has  neai  V  banished  animals 


1^4  NATIONAL    FU^TH    KKADKR. 

of  prey  from  those  precincts.  The  fastnesses  of  Noiwalk,  how- 
ever, could  not  but  afford  refuge  to  some  of  thcin.  Of  late  I  had 
met  them  so  rarely,  that  my  fears  were  seldom  alive,- and  I  trod, 
without  caution,  the  ruggedest  and  most  solitary  haunts.  Still, 
however,  I  had  seldom  been  unfurnished  in  my  rambles  with  the 
means  of  defense. 

6.  The  unfrequency  wifli  which  I  had  lately  encountered  this 
foe,  and  the  encumbrance  of  provision,  made  me  neglect,  on  this 
occasion,  to  bring  with  me  my  usual  arms.  The  beast  that  was 
now  before  me,  when  stimulated  by  hunger,  was  accustomed  to 
assail  whatever  could  provide  him  with  a  banquet  of  blood.  He 
would  set  upon  man  and  the  deer  with  equal  and  irresistible 
ferocity.  His  sagacity  was  equal  to  his  strength,  and  he  seemed 
able  to  discover  when  his  antagonist  was  armed. 

T.  My  past  experience  enabled  me  to  estimate  the  full  extent 
of  my  danger.  He  sat  on  the  brow  of  the  steep,  eyeing  the 
bridge,  and  apparently  deliberating  whether  he  should  cross  it. 
It  was  probable  that  he  had  scented  my  footsteps  thus  far,  and 
should  he  pass  over,  his  vigilance  could  scarcely  fail  of  detecting 
my  asy'lum. 

8.  Should  he  retain  his  present  station,  my  danger  was 
scarcely  lessened.  To  pass  over  in  the  face  of  a  famished  tiger 
was  only  to  rush  upon  my  fate.  The  falling  of  the  trunk,  which 
had  lately  been  so  anxiously  deprecated,  was  now,  with  no  less 
solicitude,  desired.  Every  new  gust  1  hoped  would  tear  asunder 
its  remaining  bands,  and,  by  cutting  off  all  communication  be- 
tween the  opposite  steeps,  place  me  in  security.  My  hopes, 
however,  were  destined  to  be  frustrated.  The  fibers  of  the 
prostrate  tree  were  obstinately  tenacious  of  their  hold,  and 
presently  the  animal  scrambled  down  the  rock  and  proceeded  to 
cross  it. 

9.  Of  all  kinds  of  death,  that  wnich  now  menaced  me  was  the 
most  abhorred.  To  die  by  disease,  or  by  the  hand  of  a  fellow- 
creature,  was  lenient  in  comparison  wifli  being  rent  to  pieces  by 
the  fangs  of  this  savage.  To  perish  in  this  obscure  retreat,  by 
means  so  impervious  to  the  anxious  curiosity  of  my  friends,  to 
lose  my  portion  of  existence  by  so  untoward  and  ignoble  a 
destiny,  was  insupportable.  I  bitterly  deplored  my  rashness  in 
coming  hither  unprovided  for  an  encounter  like  this. 


SCENE    WITH    A    PANTHER.  165 

10.  The  evil  of  my  present  circumstances  consisted  chiefly  in 
suspense.  My  <le;itli  was  unavoidable,  but  my  imagination  had 
leisure  to  torment  itself  by  anticipations.  One  foot  of  the 
'savage  was  slowly  and  cautiously  moved  after  the  other,  lie 
struck  his  chuvs  so  deeply  into  the  bark  that  they  were  with 
difficulty  withdrawn.  At  length  he  leaped  upon  the  ground. 
We  were  now  separated  by  an  interval  of  scarcely  eight  tV'Ot. 
To  leave  the  spot  where  I  crouched  was  impossible.  Behind 
and  beside  me  the  cliflf  rose  perpendicularly,  and  before  me  was 
this  grim  and  terrific  visage.  I  shrunk  still  closer  to  the  ground 
and  closed  my  eyes. 

11.  From  this  pause  of  horror  I  was  aroused  by  the  noise 
occasioned  by  a  second  spring  of  the  animal.  He  leaped  into 
the  pit  in  which  I  had  so  deeply  regretted  that  I  had  not  taken 
refuge,  and  disappeared.  My  rescue  was  so  sudden,  and  so 
much  beyond  my  belief  or  my  hope,  that  I  doubted  for  a 
moment  whether  my  senses  did  not  deceive  me.  This  oppor- 
tunity of  escape  was  not  to  be  neglected.  I  left  my  place  and 
scrambled  over  the  trunk  with  a  precipitation  which  had  liked 
to  have  proved  fatal.  The  tree  groaned  and  shook  under  me, 
the  wind  blew  witli  unexampled  violence,  and  I  had  scarcely 
reached  the  opposite  steep  when  the  roots  were  severed  ft-om 
the  rock,  and  the  whole  fell  thundering  to  the  bottom  of  the 
chasm. 

12.  My  trepidations  were  not  speedily  quieted.  I  looked  back 
with  wonder  on  my  hair-breadth  escape,  and  on  that  singulai 
concurrence  of  events  which  had  placed  me  in  so  short  a  period 
in  absolute  security.  Had  the  trunk  fallen  a  moment  earlier,  I 
should  have  been  imprisoned  on  the  hill  or  thrown  headlong. 
Had  its  fall  been  delayed  another  moment,  I  should  have  been 
pursued ;  for  the  beast  now  issued  from  his  den,  and  testified  his 
surprise  and  disappointment  by  tokens,  the  sight  of  which  made 
my  blood  run  cold. 

13.  He  saw  me,  and  hastened  to  the  verge  of  the  chasm.  He 
squatted  on  his  hind-legs,  and  assumed  the  attitude  of  one  pre- 
paring to  leap.  My  consternation  was  excited  afresh  by  these 
appearances.  It  seemed,  at  first,  as  if  the  rift  was  too  wide  for 
any  power  of  muscles  to  carry  him  in  safety  over;  but  1  knew 
the  unparalleled  agility  of  this  animal,  and  that  his  experience 


166  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

had  made  him  a  better  judge  of  the  practicability  of  this  exploit 
than  I  was. 

14.  Still,  there  was  hope  that  he  would  relinquish  this  design 
as  desperate.  This  hope  was  quickly  at  an  end.  He  sprung, 
and  his  fore-legs  touched  the  verge  of  the  rock  on  which  I  stood. 
In  spite  of  ve'hement  exertions,  however,  the  sniface  was  too 
BHiooth  and  too  hard  to  allow  him  to  make  good  his  hold.  He 
foil,  and  a  piercing  cry,  uttered  below,  showed  that  nothing  had 
obstructed  his  descent  to  the  bottom.  C.  B.  Brown. 

Charles  Brockden  Brown,  the  first  American  who  chose  literature  as  a  pro- 
fession, was  bom  in  Philadelphia  on  the  17th  of  January,  1771,  and  died  the  22d 
of  February,  1810.  He  weis  a  gentle,  unobtrusive  enthusiast,  who,  though  he 
resided  principally  in  cities,  passed  a  large  portion  of  his  life  as  a  recluse.  He 
lived  in  an  ideal,  and  had  little  Bympathy  with  the  actual  world.  He  had  more 
genius  than  talent,  and  more  imagination  than  fancy.  His  works,  which  were 
rapidly  written,  are  incomplete,  and  deficient  in  method.  Though  he  disregard- 
ed rules,  and  cared  little  for  criticism,  his  style  was  clear  and  nervous,  With 
little  ornament,  free  of  aflTectations,  and  indicated  a  singuleir  sincerity  and  depth 
of  feeling.  "  Wieland,  or  the  Transformed,"  the  first  of  a  series  of  brilliant  nov- 
els by  which  Brown  gained  his  enduring  reputation,  was  published  in  1798.  It 
is  in  all  respects  a  remarkable  book.  Its  plot,  characters,  and  style  are  original 
and  peculiar.  The  novel  from  which  the  above  extract  was  taken  is  entitled, 
"  Edgar  Huntley,  the  Memoirs  of  a  Somnambulist."  The  scene  is  located  near 
the  forks  of  the  Delaware,  in  Pennsylvania.  Clithero,  the  sleep-walker,  has  be- 
come insane,  and  has  fled  into  one  of  the  wild  mountain  fastnesses  of  Norwalk 
Edgar  Huntley,  when  endeavoring  to  discover  his  retreat,  meets  with  the  ad- 
venture described  above.  This  description  is  written  with  a  freedom,  minute- 
ness, and  trathfuhiess  to  nature,  that  render  it  fearfully  interesting  and  effective 


40.  Nature's  Teachings. 

1.  rpHE  Seasons  came  and  went,  and  went  and  came, 
JL   To  teach  men  gratitude ;  and  as  they  pass'd, 
Gave  warning  of  the  lapse  of  time,  that  else 

Had  stolen  unheeded  by.     The  gentle  flowers 
Retired,  and,  stooping  o'er  the  wilderness, 
Talk'd  of  humility,  and  peace,  and  love. 
The  dews  came  down  unseen  at  evening-tide, 
And  silently  their  bounties  shed,  to  teach 
Mankind  unostenta'tious  charity. 

2.  Wifli  arm  in  arm  the  ^rest  rose  on  high, 
And  lesson  gave  of  brotherly  regard. 


nature's  tp:aching8.  167 

And,  on  the  rugged  mountain-brow  exposed, 

Bearing  the  blast  alone,  the  ancient  oak 

Stood,  lifting  high  his  mighty  arm,  and  still 

To  courage  in  distress  exhorted  loud. 

The  flocks,  the  herds,  the  birds,  the  streams,  the  l—eeze, 

Attuned  the  heart  to  melody  and  love. 

3.  Mercy  stood  in  the  cloud,  wifli  eye  that  wept 
Essential  love ;  and,  from  her  glorious  bow, 
Bending  to  kiss  the  earth  in  token  of  peace. 
With  her  own  lips,  her  gracious  lips,  which  God 
Of  sweetest  accent  made,  she  whisper'd  still. 
She  whisper'd  to  Revenge — Forgive,  forgive ! 
The  sun,  rejoicing  round  the  earth,  announced 
Daily  the  wisdom,  power,  and  love  of  God. 
The  moon  awoke,  and  from  her  maiden  face 
Shedding  her  cloudy  locks,  look'd  meekly  forth, 
And  with  her  virgin  stars  walk'd  in  the  heavens, 
Walk'd  nightly  there,  conversing,  as  she  walk'd. 
Of  purity,  and  holiness,  and  God. 

4.  In  dreams  and  visions,  sleep  instructed  much. 
Day  utter'd  speech  to  day,  and  night  to  night 
Taught  knowledge.     Silence  had  a  tongue ;  the  gravo, 
The  darkness,  and  the  lonely  waste,  had  each 

A  tongue,  that  ever  said — Man !  think  of  God ! 

Think  of  thyself!  think  of  eternity  ! 

Fear  God,  the  thunders  said ;  Fear  God,  the  waves. 

Fear  God,  the  lightning  of  the  storm  replied. 

Fear  God,  deep  loudly  answer'd  back  to  deep.        Pollok. 

Robert  Pollok  was  bom  in  1799,  in  Renfrewshire,  Scotland,  where  his  father 
was  a  small  farmer.  After  receiving  the  usual  elementary  education,  he  entei^ 
ed,  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  on  a  five  years'  course  of  study  in  the  University  of 
Glasgow.  His  ambitious  and  energetic  poem,  "Course  of  Time,"  appeared  in 
tiie  spring  of  1827,  and  speedily  obtained  a  popularity  which  it  is  not  likely  soon 
to  lose.  Its  deeply  religious  cheuracter  recommended  it  to  serious  persons ;  and 
it  was  admired  by  critics  for  the  many  flashes  of  origined  genius  which  light  up 
the  crude  and  unwieldy  design,  and  atone  for  the  narrow  range  of  thought  and 
knowledge,  as  well  as  for  the  stiff  pomposity  that  pervades  the  diction.  A  few 
01  its  passages  are  strikmgly  and  most  poetically  imaginative,  and  some  are 
beautifully  touching.  Immediately  after  the  publication  of  his  poem,  he  was 
admitted  as  a  preacher  in  the  United  Secession  Church.  He  died  of  consump* 
tion  in  September  of  the  same  year,  before  the  age  of  thirty. 


168  NATIONAL    FIFIH    REAUEE. 


41.  Work. 


THERE  is  a  perennial'  nobleness,  and  even  sacredness,  in  work.* 
Were  he  never  so  benighted,  forgetful  of  his  high  calling, 
there  is  always  hope  in  a  man  that  actually  and  earnestly  works ; 
iA  idleness  alone  is  there  perpetual  despair.  Work,  never  so 
Mammonish/  mean,  is  in  communication  with  Nature:  the  real 
desire  to  get  work  done  will  itself  lead  one  more  and  more  to 
truth,*  to  Nature's  appointments  and  regulations  which  are  truth. 

2.  Blessed  is  he  who  has  found  his  work ;  let  him  ask  no 
other  blessedness.  He  has  a  work,  a  life-purpose ;  he  has  found 
it,  and  will  follow  it !  How,  as  a  free  flowing  channel,  dug  and 
torn  by  noble  force  through  the  sour  mud-swamp  of  one's  exist- 
ence, like  an  ever-deepening  river  there,  it  runs  and  flows ! — drain- 
ing ofi"  the  sour  festering  water  gradually  from  the  root*  of  the 
remotest  grass  blade ;  making,  instead  of  pestilential  swamp,  a 
green  fruitful  meadow  wifti  its  clear  flowing  stream.  How 
blessed  for  the  meadow  itself,  let  the  stream  and  its  value  be 
great  or  small ! 

3.  Labor  is  life ;  from  the  inmost  heart  of  the  worker  rises  his 
God-given  fiirce,  the  sacred  celestial  life-essence,  breathed  into 
him  by  Almighty  God ;  from  his  inmost  heart  awakens  him  to 
all  nobleness,  to  all  knowledge,  "  self-knowledge,"  and  much  else, 
so  soon  as  work  fitly  begins.  Knowledge !  the  knowledge  that 
will  hold  good  in  working,  cleave  thou  to  that ;  for  Nature  her- 
-self  accredits  that,  says  Yea  to  that.  Properly,  thou  hast  no 
other  knowledge  but  what  thou  hast  got  by  working:  the  rest 
is  yet  all  a  hypothesis^  of  knowledge ;  a  thing  to  be  argued  of 
in  schools,  a  thing  floating  in  the  clouds  in  endless  logic  vor'tices,' 
till  we  try  it  and  fix  it.  "  Doubt,  of  whatever  kind,  can  be  ended 
by  action  alone." 

Per  fen'  ni  al,  lUerally,  through  or  beyond  a  year  ;  hence,  enduring  ; 
lasting  perpetually. — '  Work  (w§rk). — "  M&m'  men  ish,  relating  to  Mam- 
mon, the  Syrian  god  of  riches.  The  word  here  implies  mercenary,  or 
procured  by  means  of  money. — *  Truth  (tr6th). — '  R6ot. — •  Hy  p6th'  e  sis, 
a  proposition  or  principle  assumed  for  the  purpose  of  argument ;  a  sup- 
position.—'' L6g' ic  vor'ticis,  intricate  logical  arguments.  Vortices^ 
(vir'  ti  sfez),  whirlpools. 


WOKK.  169 

4.  Older  than  all  preached  gospels'  was  this  nnprcached,  in- 
articulate, but  ineradicable,^  for-ever-enduring  gospel :  work,  and 
therein  have  well-being.  Man,  Son  of  Earth  and  of  Heaven,  lies 
there  not,  in  the  innermost  heart  of  thee,  a  spirit  of  active  mdh- 
od,  a  force  for  work; — and  burns  like  a  painfully  sraoldeiing 
fire,  giving  thee  no  rest  till  thou  unfold  it,  till  thou  write  it  down 
in  beneficent^  facts  around  thee  1  What  is  imraethodic,''  waste, 
thou  shalt  make  methodic,  regulated,  arable,*  obedient  and  pro- 
ductive to  thee.  Wheresoever  thou  findest  disorder,  there  is 
thy  eternal  enemy  :  attack  him  swiftly,  subdue  him ;  make  order 
of  him,  the  subject  not  of  chaos,  but  of  intelligence,  divinity,  and 
thee !  The  thistle  that  grows  in  thy  path,  dig  it  out  that  a 
blade  of  useful  grass,  a  drop  of  nourishing  milk,  may  grow  there 
instead.  The  waste  cotton-shrub,  gather  its  waste  white  down, 
spin  it,  weave  it ;  that,  in  place  of  idle  litter,  there  may  be  fold- 
ed webs,  and  the  naked  skin  of  man  be  covered. 

5.  But,  above  all,  where  thou  findest  ignorance,  stupidity, 
brute-mindedness — attack  it,  I  say ;  smite  it  ^^isely,  unweariedly, 
and  rest  not  while  thou  livest  and  it  lives ;  but  smite,  smite  in  the 
name  of  God  !  The  highest  God,  as  I  understand  it,  does  audi- 
bly so  command  thee :  still  audibly,  if  thou  have  ears  lo  hear 
He,  even  He,  wifh  his  unspoken  voice,  is  fuller  than  any  Sinai* 
thunders,  or  syllabled  speech  of  whirlwinds ;  for  the  silence  of 
deep  eternities,  of  worlds  from  beyond  the  morning  stars,  does  it 
(lot  speak  to  thee  ?  The  unborn  ages ;  the  old  graves,  with 
Uieir  long-muldering  dust,  the  very  tears  that  wetted  it,  now  all 
dry — do  not  these  speak  to  thee  what  ear  hath  not  heard  ?  The 
deep  death-kingdoms,  the  stars  in  their  never-resting  courses,  all 
space  and  all  time,  proclaim  it  to  thee  in  continual  silent  admo- 
nition. Thou,  too,  if  ever  man  should,  shalt  work  while  it  is 
CjJled  to-day ;  for  the  night  cometh,  wherein  no  man  can  work. 

6.  All  true  work  is  sacred ;  in  all  true  work,  were  it  but  true 

G&s'  pel,  good  news,  hence  the  four  books  which  relate  the  history 
of  the  Saviour  are  called  gospels  ;  divine  truth. — '  In  e  vAd"  i  ca  ble,  that 
cannot  be  uprooted  or  destroyed. — '  Be  nSf  i  cent,  doing  gt>od  ;  abound- 
ing in  acts  of  goodness  ;  charitable. — *  Im  me  thSd'ic,  having  ho  meth- 
od ;  without  S3-stematic  arrangement,  order,  or  regularity. — 'Ar'able, 
fit  for  tillage  or  plowing  ;  plowed  ;  productive. — "  Si'  iihi,  a  moiuitain  ol 
Arabia  Fetraja,  famous  iu  Scripture.     Heig-\t  above  the  sea.  7,4H7  feet. 

8 


170  NA'noNAL   FD^TU    ia.:Al)ER. 

hand-labor,  th(.:e  is  something  of  divineness.  Labor,  wide  as 
the  earth,  has  its  summit  in  heaven.  Swgat  of  the  brow ;  and 
up  from  that  to  sweat  of  the  brain,  sweat  of  the  heart;  which 
includes  all  Kepler'  calculations,  Newton^  meditations,  all  scien- 
ces, all  spoken  epics,  all  acted  heroism,  martyrdoms — up  to  that 
"  agony  of  bloody  sweat,"  w^hich  all  men  have  called  divine !  O 
brother,  if  this  is  not  "  worship,"  then  I  say,  the  more  pity  for 
worship;  for  this  is  the  noblest  thing  yet  discovered  under 
Ood's  sky. 

7.  Who  art  thou  that  complaincst  of  thy  life  of  toil?  Com 
plain  not.  Look  up,  my  wearied  brother ;  see  thy  fellow-work- 
men there,  in  God's  eternity ;  surviving'  there,  they  alone  surviv- 
ing :  sacred  band  of  the  immortals,  cel»  iitial  body-guard  of  the 
empire  of  mind.  Even  in  the  weak  hit  <:ian  memory  they  sur- 
vive so  long,  as  saints,  as  heroes,  as  gods ;  they  alone  surviving : 
peopling,  they  alone,  the  immeasurcd  solitudes  of  Time !  To 
thee  Heaven,  though  severe,  is  not  unkind ;  Heaven  is  kind — as 
a  noble  mother ;  as  that  Spartan  mother,  saying  while  she  gave 
her  son  his  shield,  "  With  it,  my  son,  or  upon  it  !"  Thou,  too, 
shalt  return  home,  in  honor  to  thy  far-distant  home,  in  honor ; 
doubt  it  not — if  in  the  battle  thou  keep  thy  shield !  Thou,  in 
the  eternities  and  deepest  death-kingdoms,  art  not  an  alien  ;* 
thou  everywhere  art  a  denizen  !*  Complain  not ;  the  very  Spar- 
tans did  not  complain.  Thomas  Carlyle. 

Thomas  Carlyle,  the  eminent  essayist,  reviewer,  and  historian,  was  bom  at 
Micldlebie,  in  Dumfriesshire,  Scotland,  in  179G.  He  received  the  rudiments  of  a 
classical  education  at  a  school  in  Annan,  a  town  about  sixty  miles  south  of  Ed- 
inburgh. At  the  University  of  Exlinburgh,  which  he  entered  at  the  age  of  seven- 
teen, he  was  distinguished  for  his  attainments  in  mathematics.  For  some  yeara 
after  leaving  the  miiversity,  he  supported  himself  by  teaching,  and  writing  foi 
booksellers.  He  is  the  author  of  various  works  and  translations—"  Life  of  Schil- 
ler," "Sartor  Resartus,"  IH.'JC;  "The  French  Revolution,"  a  history  in  three 
volumes,  18:57;  "Chartism,"  JK59;  "Critical  and  Miscellaneous  Essays,"  from 
reviews  and  magazines,  in  5  vols.,  1839  ;  "  Hero  ^V''o^ship,"  a  series  of  lectures. 


'  John  Kepler,  a  distinguished  mathematician  and  astronomer,  was 
boin  at  Wiel,  in  Wirtemberg,  on  the  21st  of  December,  1571,  and  died 
November  5tli,  o.  s.,  1631. — 'Isaac  Newton,  a  celebrated  mathemati- 
cian and  natural  philosopher,  was  born  at  Woolsthorpe,  Lincolnshire, 
England,  on  the  25th  of  December,  1642,  o.  s.,  and  died  llie  20th  March, 
1727. — *  Alien  (il' yen),  a  foreigner  who  has  not  been  naturalized;  a 
gtranger.— *  Denizen  (dSn'ezn),  a  naturalized  foreigner. 


NOW.  171 

1841;  "Past  and  Present,"  1843;  "Life  of  Oliver  Ccmwell,"  "Latter-day 
Pamphlets,"  "  Life  of  John  Sterling,"  &c.  <fcc.  The  peculiar  style  and  dictioa 
of  Mr.  Carlyle  Iiave  with  some  retarded,  and  with  others  advanced  his  fKipiilarity. 
It  is  more  German  than  English,  angular,  objective,  and  unidiomatic  :  at  times, 
however,  l.iglily  graphic,  and  swelling  out  into  periods  of  Ana  imagery  and  elo- 
quence, lie  is  an  original  and  subtle  thinker,  and  combines  with  his  powers  of 
analysis  and  reasoning  a  vivid  and  brilliant  imagination.  His  opinions  and 
writings  tend  to  enlarge  our  sympathies  and  feelings — to  stir  the  heart  with 
benevolence  and  affection— to  unite  man  to  man— and  to  build  upon  this  love  of 
our  fellow-beings  a  system  of  mental  energy  and  purity  far  removed  from  the 


y^i 


operations  of  sense  auJipregnant  with  liigh  hopes  and  aspirations. 


42.  Now. 


1.  fpHE  venerable  Past' — is  past; 

JL  'Tis  dark,  and  shines  not  in  the  ray : 

'Twas  good,  no  doubt — 'tis  gone  at  last* — 

There  dav/ns  another  day. 
Why  should  we  sit  where  ivies  creep, 
And  shroud  ourselves  in  charnels  deep  ? 
Or  the  world's  yesterdays  deplore. 
Mid  crumbling  ruins  mossy  hoar  ? 

2.  Why  should  we  see  wifh  dead  men's  eyes, 

LookiniT  at  Was  from  morn  to  nio;ht, 
When  the  beauteous  Now,  the  divine  To  Be, 

Woo  with  their  charms  our  living:  sight  ? 
Why  should  we  hear  but  echoes  dull. 
When  the  world  of  sound,  so  beautiful, 

Will  give  us  music  of  our  own  ? 
Why  in  the  darkness  should  we  grope, 
When  the  sun,  in  heaven's  resplendent  cope. 

Shines  as  bright  as  ever  it  shone  ? 

3    Abraham'  saw  no  brighter  stars 

Than  those  which  burn''  for  thee  and  me. 
When  Ilomer*  heard^  the  lark's  sweet  sons: 

'  rSst. — "L^st, — 'Abraham,  the  patriarch  of  the  Jews,  born  and  died 
more  than  2,000  j-ears  b.  c. — *  Burn  (hirn). — 'Homer,  the  most  distin- 
guished  of  poets,  called  the  "  Father  of  Song."  He  is  supposed  to  have 
been  an  Asiatic  Greek,  tliough  his  birtli-pluce,  and  the  peiiod  in  which 
he  lived,  are  not  known   -•  VJidvd. 


i^  NATIONAL    FlPrU    READER. 

Or  night-bird's  lovelier  melody, 
They  were  such  sounds  as  Shakspearc*  heard, 
Or  Chaucer,'  when  he  bless'd  the  bird ;' 
Such  lovely  sounds  as  we  can  hear. — 

4.  Great  Plato*  saw  the  vernal  year 

Send  forth  its  tender  flowers  and  shoots, 
And  luscious  autumn  pour  its  fruits ; 
And  we  can  see  the  lilies  blow. 
The  corn-fields  wave,  the  rivers  flow; 
For  us  all  bounties  of  the  earth. 
For  us  its  wisdom,  love,  and  mirth, 
If  we  daily  walk  in  the  sight  of  God, 
And  prize  the  gifts  he  has  bestowed. 

5.  We  will  not  dwell  amid  the  graves, 

Nor  in  dim  twilights  sit  alone, 
To  gaze  at  molder'd  architraves,* 

Or  plinths^  and  columns  overthrown ; 
We  will  not  only  see  the  light 

Through  painted  window's  cobwebb'd  o'er, 
Nor  know  the  beauty  of  the  night 

Save  by  the  moonbeam  on  the  floor : 
But  in  the  presence  of  the  sun. 

Or  moon,  or  stars,  our  hearts  shall  glow ; 
We'll  look  at  nature  face  to  face. 

And  we  shall  love  because  we  know. 

6.  The  present  needs  us.     Every  age 
IJequeafhs  the  next  for  heritage 
No  lazy  luxury  or  delight — 

But  strenuous  labor  for  the  right ; 

*  William  Siiakspeare,  the  distingiiished  poet  and  dramatist,  was 
born  iu  1564,  and  died  in  1016. — '  Geoffbey  Chaucer,  called  the  day- 
Btar  and  father  of  English  poetry,  born  about  1328,  and  died  in  1400. 
His  great  work  is  "The  Canterbury  Tales." — 'Bird  (b5rd). — *  Plato,  a 
very  celebrated  philosoi)hcr  of  ancient  Greece,  was  born  about  430  b.  c, 
and  died  in  his  eightieth  year. — 'Architrave  (Ark'I  tr.\v),  the  part  of  u 
roof  which  rests  on  the  top  of  a  column,  designed  to  represent  the  beam 
which  supports  the  roof. —  Pllntli,  a  fiat,  round,  or  fqnare  base  or 
foundation  fur  a  column. 


STUDY.  173 

For  Now,  the  child  and  sire  of  Time, 

Demands*  the  deeds  of  earnest  men 
To  make  it  better  than  the  past, 

And  stretch  the  circle  of  its  ken. 
Now  is  a  fact  that  men  deplore, 
Though  it  might  bless  them  evermore, 
Would  they  but  fashion  it  aright : 
'Tis  ever  new,  'tis  ever  bright. 

Time,  nor  Eternity,  hath  seen 
A  repetition  of  delight 

In  all  its  phases :  ne'er  hath  been 
For  men  or  angels  that  which  is ; 

And  that  which  is  hath  ceased  to  be 
Ere  we  have  breathed  it,  and  its  place 

Is  lost  in  the  Eternity. 
But  Now  is  ever  good  and  fair, 
Of  the  Infinitude  the  heir, 
And  we  of  it.     So  let  us  live 
That  from  the  Past  we  may  receive 
Light  for  the  Now — from  Now  a  joy 
That  Fate  nor  Time  shall  e'er  destroy,     c.  Mackat.' 


43.  Study. 


TlIE  fa\orite  idea  of  a  genius  among  us,  is  of  one  who  never 
studies,  or  who  studies,  nobody  can  ttell  when — at  midnight, 
or  at  odd  times  and  intervals — and  now  and  then  strikes  out,  at 
a  heat,  as  the  phrase  is,  some  wonderful  production.  This  is  a 
character  that  has  figured  largely  in  the  history  of  our  literature, 
m  the  persons  of  our  Fieldings,'  our  Savages,''  and  our  Steeles* — 
"loose  fellows  about  town,"  or  loungers  in  the  country,  who 


»DemSnd'. — 'See  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  91.— 'Fielding,  see  Bio- 
graphical Sketch,  p.  95. — *  Savage,  a  poet  of  considerable  merit,  born 
1098,  in  London,  died  1743.  He  was  intimate  with  Johnson,  who 
wrote  an  admirable  Life  of  him. — '  Steele,  the  principal  author  of  the 
* 'Tattler,"  the  "Spectator,"  the  "Guardian,"  and  other  periodical 
Dapers,  an  Irishman  by  biith,  born  in  1671,  and  died  in  1729. 


174  NATIONAL   FIFTH   READER. 

slept  in  ale-houses  and  wrote  in  bar-rooms,  who  took  up  the  pen 
as  a  magicianV  wand  to  supply  their  wants,  and  when  the 
pressure  of  necessity  was  relieved,  resorted  again  to  tlieir  ca- 
rousals. 

2.  Your  real  genius  is  an  idle,  irregular,  vagabond  sort  of 
personage,  who  muses  in  the  fields  or  dreams  by  the  fireside ; 
svhose  strong  impulses — that  is  the  cant  of  it — must  needs  hurry 
him  into  wild  irregularities  or  foolish  eccentricity ;  who  abhors 
order,  and  can  bear  no  restraint,  and  eschews  all  labor :  such  a 
one,  for  instance,  as  Newton'  or  Milton!'  What!  they  must 
have  been  irregular,  else  they  were  no  geniuses ! 

3.  **  The  young  man,"  it  is  often  said,  "  has  genius  enough,  if 
he  would  only  study."  Now  the  truth  is,  as  I  shall  take  the 
liberty  to  state  it,  that  genius  will  study,  it  is  that  in  the  mind 
which  does  study ;  that  is  the  very  nature  of  it.  I  care  not  to 
say  that  it  will  always  use  books.  All  study  is  not  reading,  any 
more  than  all  reading  is  study.  Study,  says  Cicero,^  is  the 
voluntary  and  vigorous  application  of  the  mind  to  any  subject. 

4.  Such  study,  such  intense  mental  action,  and  nothing-*  else, 
is  genius.  And  so  far  as  there  is  any  native  predisposition  about 
this  enviable  character  of  mind,  it  is  a  predisposition  to  that 
action.  That  is  the  only  test  of  the  original  bias ;  and  he  who 
does  not  come  to  that  point,  though  he  may  have  shrewdness, 
and  readiness,  and  parts,  never  had  a  genius. 

5.  No  need  to  waste  regrets  upon  him,  as  that  he  never  could 
be  induced  to  give  his  attention  or  study  to  any  thing;  ho 
never  had  that  which  ht  is  supposed  to  have  lost.  For  atten- 
tion it  is — though  other  qualities  belong  to  this  transcendent' 


*  Magician  (maj!sh'an),  one  who  is  skilled  in  the  art  and  scienco  of 
putting  into  action  the  power  of  spirits  or  the  secret  operation  of  natu- 
ral causes. — '  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  the  greatest  of  philosophere  and  math- 
ematicians, was  bom  in  Lincolnshire,  England,  December  25,  1642. 
His  investigations  have  completely  revolutionized  modern  science.  His 
three  great  discoveries,  of  fluxions,  the  nature  of  light  and  colors,  and 
the  laws  of  gravitation,  have  given  him  a  name  which  will  last  as  long 
as  civilization  exists.  His  "  Principia"  unfolds  the  theory  of  tlo  uni- 
verse. He  died  in  1727. — *  Milton,  see  Indei:  of  Authors. — *  Cicero, 
see  p.  143,  note  4. — 'Nothing  (nftth' ing). — •  >ans cfind' ent,  surpass 
ing ;  very  excellent. 


LruDY.  175 

power — attoiilion  :'t  is,  that  is  tlic  very  so  il  of  genius  :  not  the 
fixed  eye,  not  the  poring  over  a  book,  but  the  fixed  thought.  It 
is,  in  fact,  an  action  of  the  mind  which  is  steadily  concentrate  J 
upon  one  idea  or  one  series  of  ideas, — which  collects  in  one 
pc^int  the  rays  of  the  soul  till  they  search,  penetrate,  and  fire  the 
whole  train  of  its  thoughts, 

G.  And  while  the  fire  burns  within,  the  outward  man  may 
indeed  be  cold,  indifferent,  and  negligent, — absent  in  ap}>car 
ance ;  he  may  be  an  idler,  or  a  wanderer,  apparently  without 
aim  or  intent ;  but  still  the  fire  burns  within.  And  what  though 
*'  it  bursts  forth"  at  length,  as  has  been  said,  "  like  volcanic  fires, 
with  spontaneous,  original,  native  ftrce?"  It  only  shows  the 
intenser  action  of  the  elements  beneath.  What  though  it  breaks 
like  lightning  from  the  cloud  ?  The  electric  fire  had  been  col- 
lecting in  the  firmament  through  many  a  silent,  calm,  and 
clear  day. 

7.  What  though  the  might  of  genius  appears  in  one  decisive 
blow,  struck  in  some  moment  of  high  debate,  or  at  the  crisis  of 
a  nation's  peril  ?  That  mighty  energy,  though  it  may  have 
heaved  in  the  breast  of  a  Demosthenes,'  was  once  a  feeble  in- 
fant's thought.  A  mother's  eye  watched  over  its  dawning.  A 
father's  care  guarded  its  early  growth.  It  soon  trod  wifli  youth- 
ful steps  the  halls  of  learning,  and  found  other  fathers  to  wake 
and  to  watch  for  it, — even  as  it  finds  them  here. 

8.  It  went  on ;  but  silence  was  upon  its  path,  and  the  deep 
stragglings  of  the  inwavd  soul  marked  its  progress,  and  the 
cherishing  powers  of  natare  silently  ministered  to  it  The  ele- 
ments around  breathed  upon  it  and  "  touched  it  to  finer  issues." 
The  golden  ray  of  heaven  fell  upon  it,  and  ripened  its  expanding 
faculties.  The  slow  revolutions  of  years  slowly  added  to  its  col- 
lected treaFures  and  energies ;  till  in  its  hour  of  glory,  it  stood 
f5rth  embodied  in  the  form  of  living,  commanding,  irresistible 
eloquence ! 

9.  The  world  wonders  at  the  manifestation,  and  says,  "Strange, 
strange,  that  it  should  como  thus  unsought,  unpremeditated,  un- 

'  Demosthenes,  the  greatest  of  Greek  orators,  was  born  at  Athens,  b.  a 
882,  and  died  b.  c.  about  322.  His  orations  present  to  us  the  models 
which  approach  the  nearept  to  perfection  )f  all  human  prcKluctions. 


1.76  NATIONAL   FIFTH   READER. 

prepared!"  B:.t  the  truth  is,  there  is  no  more  a  nilra^U;  in  it, 
than  there  is  in  the  towering  of  the  preeminent  lorest-tree,  or  in 
the  flowing  of  the  mighty  and  irresistible  river,  or  in  the  wealth 
and  tiie  waving  of  the  boundless  harvest.  Ouville  Dkwey. 

Orvili.e  Dewev,  D.  D.,  was  born  in  SlieHield,  Berkshire  county,  Slaisachu- 
selts,  iMarcli  'J8tli,  n<t4.  Ills  fallier  'vas  a  larnier,  oficupyins  a  highly  resi>f.';ta- 
ble  iiosilioii  as  a  citiz-^n.  lie  enlereJ  Williams  College,  in  his  native  county,  at 
the  age  of  seventeen,  where  lie  gained  a  high  position.  He  was  thorough  in  aU 
his  studies.  Rlietoric  he  cultivated  with  uncoininon  perseverance.  He  wa' 
rritical  and  severe  upon  his  own  literary  productions,  revising  and  pruning  with 
a  fidelity  which  gained  him  preeminence  in  his  class,  as  already  attain mg  a 
style  of  classic  strength  and  purity.  He  was  graduated  in  1814,  with  the  highest 
honors  of  the  institution,  having  received  the  appointment  of  Valedictorian.  He 
pursued  his  professional  studies  at  Andover  Theological  Seminary,  In  1823  he 
received  and  accepted  a  call  to  become  pastor  of  a  Unitarian  church  in  New 
Bedford,  where  he  remained  ten  years.  During  this  period  he  lectured  frequent- 
ly, and  wrote  for  the  press.  He  first  visiti^  Europe  for  the  improvement  of  his 
health  in  June,  1833,  where  he  spent  a  year.  After  his  return,  he  published 
Bome  results  of  his  travels  in  a  volume  entitled,  "  The  Old  World  and  the  New." 
This  book  contains  some  of  the  best  criticisms  on  jiainting,  on  music,  on  scul|>- 
ture,  on  men,  things,  and  places;  and  more  than  all,  views  of  society,  of  govern- 
ment, of  the  tendency  of  monarchical  institutions,  and  of  the  condition  of  the 
European  people,  which  are  sound,  compreliensive,  and  deeply  interesting.  On 
his  return  from  Europe  he  was  settled  over  "  The  Second  Congregational  Unita- 
rian Society"  of  New  York.  In  1842  he  again  went  abroad  for  his  health,  tak- 
ing his  family  with  him.  lie  passed  two  years  in  France,  Italy,  Switzerland, 
and  England.  In  1848,  his  health  again  failing,  he  dissolved  his  connection 
with  his  church.  Since  that  time  he  has  occasionally  preached  and  lectured  in 
nearly  all  the  large  cities  of  the  Union.  All,  except  his  late  writings,  are  bound 
in  one  volume,  published  at  London  in  1844.  His  productions  since  that  period 
are  published  in  New  York,  in  three  volumes.  Dr.  Dewey  has  great  depth  of 
thought.  Ilis  imagination  is  rich,  but  not  superfluous;  ready,  but  not  obtrusive. 
His  style  is  artistic  and  scholarly.  His  periods  are  perfectly  comi)lete  and 
rounded,  yet  filled  by  the  thought;  the  variety  is  great,  yefa  symmetry  pre- 
vails ;  and  in  general  we  find  that  harmony  between  the  thouglits  and  their 
form  ^  Inch  should  always  obtain. 


44.  The  Pcwer  of  Art. 

1.  "liniEN,  from  the  sacred  garden  driven, 
VY    Man  fled  before  his  Maker's  wrath, 
An  angel  left  her  place  in  heaven, 

And  crossM  the  wanderer's  sunless  path. 
Twas  Art!  sweet  Art! — new  radiance  broke 
Where  her  liii:ht  foot  flew  o'er  the  giMmd; 


THE   POWER   OF   AET. 


177 


And  thus  wifli  seraph  voice  she  spoke, — 
"  The  curse  a  blessing  shall  be  ^ound." 

2.  She  led  him  through  the  trackless  wild, 

Where  noontide  sunbeams  never  blazed ; 
The  thistle  shrank,  the  harvest  smiled, 

And  nature  gladden'd  as  she  gazed. 
Earth's  thousand  tribes  of  living  things, 

At  Art's  command  to  him  are  given ; 
The  village  grows,  the  city  springs. 

And  point  their  spires  of  faith  to  heaven. 

3.  He  rends  the  oak,  and  bids  it  ride. 

To  guard  the  shores  its  beauty  graced ; 
He  smites  the  rock,  upheaved  in  pride, — 

See  towers  of  strength  and  domes  of  taste  * 
Earth's  teeming  caves  their  wealth  reveal ; 

Fire  bears  his  banner  on  the  wave; 
He  bids  the  mortal  poison  heal ; 

And  leaps  triumphant  o'er  the  grave. 

4.  He  plucks  the  pearls  that  stud  the  deep, 

Admiring  beauty's  lap  to  fill ; 
He  breaks  the  stubborn  marble's  sleep, 

And  mocks  his  own  Creator's  skill. 
Wifti  thoughts  that  fill  his  glowing  soul 

He  bids  the  ore  illume  the  page ; 
And,  proudly  scorning  Time's  control. 

Commerces  with  an  unborn  age. 

o.  In  fields  of  air  he  writes  his  name. 

And  treads  the  chambers  of  the  sky ; 
He  reads  the  stars,  and  grasps  the  flame 

That  quivers  round  the  throne  on  high. 
In  war  renown'd,  in  peace  sublime, 

He  moves  in  greatness  and  in  grace ; 
Uis  power,  subduing  space  and  time, 

Links  realm  to  realm,  and  race  to  race.     Spraqub. 

Charles  Spraguk  was  bom  in  Boston,  on  the  20th  day  of  October,  1791.  He 
Vt-as  educated  in  the  scliools  of  his  native  city,  which  he  left  at  an  early  period 
to  aoiuire  a  practical  kiio\vled;/e  ol'  trade.    At  Iweutvono  yeai-s  af  age  he  coin- 


178  NATIONAL    FIITU    READER. 

nienced  llie  business  of  merchant  on  his  own  account,  and  conlinued  in  it  until 

1820,  when  he  was  elected  cashier  of  the  Globe  Bank.  He  is  still  connected 
with  that  institution.  In  tliis  period  he  has  found  leisure  to  study  the  works  o( 
the  preutesl  aiitiiors,  particularly  those  of  the  niastea  of  English  poetry,  and  to 
write  the  adiiiirable  poems  on  which  is  based  his  own  reputation.  IMr,  Simiague's 
first  pioduclions  that  attracted  much  attention,  were  a  series  of  brilliant  pro- 
logues, the  firvt  of  v.'lsich  was  written  for  the  Park  Tlieater,  in  New  York,  in 

1821.  "yiiakspeare  Ode,"  deiivered  in  Boston  Theater,  in  It^ti."},  at  the  e.xhibi- 
tion  of  a  pageant  in  honor  of  Shaksi'eare,  is  one  of  tlie  most  vij^orons  and  ex- 
quisite lyricc  in  the  English  language.  "  Curiosity,"  the  longest  and  best  of  his 
poeir.3,  was  delivered  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society,  at  Cambridge,  in  Au- 
gust, 1829.  Several  of  his  short  poems  evince  great  skill  in  the  use  of  language, 
and  show  hijv  to  be  a  master  of  tiie  poetic  art. 


45.   Wants. 


EVERYBODY,  young  and  old,  children  and  gray-beards,  has 
beard  of  tbe  renowned  Ilaroun  Al  liascbid.'  the  bero  of 
Eastern  history  and  Eastern  romance,  and  the  most  illustrious  of 
the  caliphs^  of  Bagdad,^  that  famous  city  on  which  the  light  of 
learning  and  science  shone,  long  ere  it  dawned  on  the  benighted 
regions  of  Europe,  which  has  since  succeeded  to  tbe  diadem  that 
once  glittered  on  tbe  brow  of  Asia.''  Though  as  tbe  successor  of 
tbe  Prophet  be  exercised  a  despotic  sway  over  the  lives  and  for- 
tunes of  bis  subjects,  yet  did  be  not,  like  tbe  Eastern  despots  of 
more  modern  times,  shut  himself  up  within  tbe  walls  of  bis  pal- 
ace, hearing  nothing  but  the  adulation  of  bis  dependents ;  seeing 
nothing  but  tbe  shadows  which  suiTOunded  him ;  and  knowing 
nothing  but  what  be  received  through  tbe  medium  of  in'terest«d 
deception  or  malignant  falsehood. 

2.  That  be  might  see  wi9\  bis  own  eyes  and  bear  with  his 
own  ears,  be  was  accustomed  to  go  about  through  the  streets  of 

*  Haroun  al  Rasciiid;  a  celebrated  caliph  of  tlie  Saracens,  ascended 
the  throne  in  786,  and  was  a  contemporary  of  Charlemagne.  He  was 
brave,  mimificcnt,  and  fond  of  hitters,  but  cruel  and  perfidious. — 'Ci'- 
liph,  a  successor  or  representative  of  Mohammed  ;  one  vested  witli  su- 
preme dignity  and  power  in  all  matters  relating  to  religion  and  civil 
policy.  This  title  is  borne  by  the  grand  seignior  in  Turkey,  and  by  the 
Bophi  of  Persia. — '  Dag  dad',  a  large  and  celebrated  city  of  Asiatic  Tur- 
key, formerly  capital  of  the  empire  of  the  caliplis,  now  capiUd  of  the 
pashalic  of  the  sjime  name,  on  both  banks  of  the  'i'igris,  about  190 
uMloK  above  its  jtmrtion  with  the  Euphrates. — *  Aam  {h'  she  a). 


WANTS.  179.. 

Bagdad'  by  night,  in  disguise,  accompanied  by  Giafer  llic  Bar- 
(iiccido,  his  grand  vizier,  and  Mesrour,  his  executioner;  one  to 
give  him  his  counsel,  the  other  to  fulfil  his  commands  promptly, 
on  all  occasions.  If  he  saw  any  commotion  among  the  people, 
he  mixed  with  them  and  learned  its  cause;  and  if  in  passing  a 
house  he  heard  the  moanings  of  distiess  or  the  complaints  of 
suffering,  lie  entered,  for  the  purpose  of  administering  relief. 
Thus  he  made  himself  acquainted  with  the  condition  of  his  sub- 
jects, and  often  heard  those  salutary  truths  which  never  reached 
his  ears  through  the  walls  of  his  palace,  or  from  the  lips  of  the 
slaves  that  surrounded  him. 

3.  On  one  of  these  occasions,  as  Al  Raschid  was  thus  peram- 
bulating the  streets  at  night,  in  disguise,  accompanied  by  his 
vizier  and  his  executioner,  in  ])assing  a  splendid  mansion  he 
overheard,  through  the  lattice  of  a  window,  the  complaints  of 
some  one  who  seemed  in  the  deepest  distress,  and  silently  ap- 
proaching, looked  into  an  apartment  exhibiting  all  the  signs  of 
wealth  and  luxury.  On  a  sofa  of  satin  embroidered  wifh  gold, 
and  sparkling  with  brilliant  gem.s,  he  beheld  a  man  richly  dressed, 
in  whom  he  rec'ognized  his  favorite  boon-companion  Bedreddin, 
on  whom  he  had  showered  wealth  and  honors  with  more  tlian 
Eastern  prodigality.  lie  was  stretched  out  on  tke  sofa,  slapping 
his  forehead,  tearing  his  beard,  and  moaning  piteously,  as  if  in 
the  extremity  of  suflering.  At  length  starting  up  on  his  feet,  he 
exclaimed  in  tones  of  despair,  "  O  Allah  1'  I  beseech  thee  to  re- 
lieve me  from  my  misery,  and  take  away  my  life !" 

4.  The  Commander^  of  the  Faithful,  who  loved  Bedreddin, 
pitied  his  sorrows,  and  being  desirous  to  know  their  cause,  that 
he  might  relieve  them,  knocked  at  the  door,  which  was  opened 
by  a  black  slave,  who,  on  being  informed  that  they  were  stran- 
gers in  want  of  food  and  rest,  at  once  admitted  them,  and  in- 
formed his  master,  who  called  them  into  his  presence  and  bade 
them  welcome.  A  plentiful  feast  was  spread  before  them,  at 
which  the  master  of  the  house  sat  down  with  his  guests,  but  of 
which  he  did  not  partake,  but  looked  on,  sighing  bitterly  all  the 
while. 

5.  The  Commander  of  the  Faithful  at  length  ventured  to  ask 

Al  lah,  the  Ar'abic  name  of  the  Supreme  Being. — •Com  mdud'or. 


ISO  NATION  a:.    FlFfH    READER. 

him  what  caused  his  distress,  and  why  he  refrained  from  partak- 
ing in  the  feast  vvifli  his  guests,  in  proof  that  they  were  welcome. 
"Has  Allah  afflicted  thee  with  disease,  that  thou  canst  not  enjoy 
the  blessings  he  has  bestowed?  Thou  a't  surrounded  by  all  the 
splendor  that  wealth  can  procure;  thy  d^elling  is  a  palace,  and 
its  apartments  are  adorned  with  all  the  luxuries  which  cainivate 
the  eye,  or  administer  to  the  gratilication  of  the  senses.  Why 
is  il  then,  0  my  brother,  that  thou  art  miserable  V 

0.  "True,  0  stranger,"  re])i'ed  Dedreddin.  "I  iiave  ill  these 
1  have  health  of  body ;  lam  rich  enough  to  purehase  all  that 
wealth  can  bestow,  and  if  1  reqiiired  more  wealth  an»l  honors,  I 
am  the  favorite  companion  of  the  Commander  of  the  Faithful,  on 
whose  head  lie  the  blessings  of  Allah,  and  of  whom  1  have  only 
to  ask,  to  obtain  all  1  desire,  save  one  thing  only." 

7.  "And  what  is  that?"  a-;.ked  the  cafiph.  "Alas!  T  adore 
the  beautiful  Zuleima,  whose  face  is  like  the  full  moon,  whose 
eyes  are  brighter  and  softer  than  those  of  the  gazelle,  and  whose 
mouth  is  like  the  seal  of  Solomon.  But  she  loves  another,  and 
all  my  wealth  and  honors  are  as  nothing.  The  want  of  one 
thing  renders  the  possession  of  every  other  of  no  value.  I  am 
the  most  wretched  of  men  ;  my  life  is  a  burden,  and  my  death 
would  be  a  blessing." 

8.  "By  the  beard  of  the  Prophet,"  cried  the  calipli,  "I  swear, 
thy  case  is  a  hard  one.  But  Allah  is  great  and  powerful,  and 
will,  I  trust,  either  deliver  thee  from  thy  burden  or  give  thee 
strength  to  bear  it."  Then  thanking  Bcdreddin  for  his  hospi- 
tality, the  Commander  of  the  Faithful  departed,  wifli  his  com- 
panions. 


4G.   "Wants — continued. 

TAKING  their  way  toward  that  part  of  the  city  inhabited  by 
the  poorer  classes  of  people,  the  caliph  stumbled  over  some- 
thing, in  the  obscurity  of  night,  and  was  nigh  falling  to  the 
ground  :  at  the  same  moment  a  voice  cried  out,  "Allah,  preserve 
me !  Am  I  not  wretched  enough  already,  that  I  must  be  trodden 
under  foot  by  a  wandering  beggar  like  myself,  in  the  darknoss  of 
night  1" 


WAXTS.  ISl 

2.  Mczrour  the  executioner,  indignant  at  this  insult  to  the 
Comniandei'  of  the  Faithful,  was  preparing  to  cut  off  his  head, 
when  Al  Raschid  interposed,  and  inquired  of  the  beggar  his 
name,  and  why  he  was  there  sleeping  in  the  streets,  at  that  hour 
of  tlie  night. 

3.  "Mashallah,"  replied  he,  "I  sleep  in  the  street  because  I 
have  nowhere  else  to  sleep;  and  if  I  lie  on  a  satin  sofa,  my  pal  us 
and  intirmities  would  rob  nie  of  rest.  Whether  on  divans  Oi 
silk  or  in  the  dirt,  all  one  to  me,  for  neither  by  day  nor  by  night 
do  I  know  any  rest.  ]f  I  close  my  eyes  for  a  moment,  my 
dreams  arc  of  nothing  but  feasting,  and  1  awake  only  to  feel 
more  bitterly  the  pangs  of  hunger  and  disease." 

4.  "Hast  thou  'o  home  to  shelter  thee,  no  friends  or  kindred 
to  relieve  tliy  nec.ssities,  or  administer  to  thy  infirmities?" 

5.  "No,"  replied  the  beggar;  "my  house  was  consumed  h} 
fire;  my  kintlred  are  all  dead,  and  my  friends  have  deserted  me. 
Aliis!  stranger,  I  am  in  want  of  every  thing — health,  food,  cloth- 
ing, home,  kindred,  and  friends.  I  am  the  most  wretched  of 
mankind,  and  death  alone  can  relieve  me." 

6.  "Of  one  thing,  at  least,  I  can  relieve  thee,"  said  the  caliph, 
giving  him  Ids  purse.  "  Go  and  provide  thyself  food  and  shelter, 
and  may  Allah  restore  thy  health." 

Y.  The  beggar  took  the  purse,  but  instead  of  calling  down 
blessings  on  the  head  of  his  benefactor,  exclaimed,  "  Of  what  use 
is  money?  it  cannot  cure  disease;"  and  the  caliph  again  went 
on  his  way  with  Giafer  his  vizier,  and  Mesrour  his  executioner. 


47.  Wants — concluded. 

PASSING  from  the  abodes  of  want  and  misery,  they  at  length 
reached  a  splendid  palace,  and  seeing  lights  glimmering 
from  the  windows,  the  caliph  approached,  and  looking  through 
the  silken  curtains,  beheld  a  man  walking  backward  and  forward, 
wifti  languid  step,  as  if  oppressed  with  a  load  of  cares.  At  length 
casting  himself  down  on  a  sofa,  he  stretched  out  his  limbs,  and 
yawning  desperateb,  exclaimed,  "  0  Allah !  what  shall  I  do  ? 
what  will  become  of  me!     I  am  weary  of  life;  it  is  nothing  but 


182.  N'AIIUNAL    FIFTH     IIKADKK. 

a  cheat,  j>romising  what  it  never  purposes,  and  affording  only 
Uopes  that  end  in  disappointment,  or,  if  realized,  only  in  dis- 

2.  The  curiosity  of  the  caliph  being  awakened  to  know  the 
cause  of  his  despair,  he  ordered  Mcirour  to  knock  at  the  door ; 
which  being  opened,  they  pleaded  the  privilege  of  strangers  to 
enter,  for  rest  and  refreshments.  Again,  in  accordance  wifli  llie 
precepts  of  the  Ko'ran'  and  the  customs  of  the  East,  the  stran 
gers  were  admitted  to  the  presence  of  the  lord  of  the  palace, 
who  received  them  with  welcome,  and  directed  refreshments  to 
be  brought.  But  though  he  treated  his  guests  with  kindness, 
he  neither  sat  down  with  them  nor  asked  any  questions,  nor 
joined  in  their  discourse,  walking  back  and  forth  languidly,  and 
seeming  oppressed  with  a  licavy  burden  of  sorrows. 

3.  At  length  the  caliph  approached  him  reverently,  and  said  : 
"  Thou  seemest  sorrowful,  0  my  brother !  If  thy  suffering  is  of 
the  body,  I  am  a  physician,  and  perad venture  can  afford  thee  re- 
lief; for  I  have  traveled  into  distant  lands,  and  collected  very 
choice  remedies  for  human  infirmity." 

4.  "  My  sufferings  are  not  of  the  body,  but  of  the  mind,"  an- 
swered the  other. 

5.  "  Ilast  thou  lost  the  beloved  of  thy  h<5art,  the  friend  of  thy 
bosom,  or  been  disappointed  in  the  attainment  of  that  on  which 
thou  hast  rested  all  thy  hopes  of  happiness  ?" 

6.  "  Alas !  no.  I  have  been  disappointed,  not  in  the  means, 
but  in  the  attainment  of  happiness.  I  want  nothing  but  a  want. 
I  am  cursed  with  the  gratification  of  all  my  wishes,  and  the  frui- 
tion of  all  my  hopes.  I  have  wasted  my  life  in  the  acquisition 
of  riches,  that  only  awakened  new  desires,  and  honors  that  no 
longer  gratify  my  pride  or  repay  me  for  the  labor  of  sustaining 
them.  I  have  been  cheated  in  the  pursuit  of  pleasures  that 
weary  me  in  the  enjoyment,  and  am  perishing  for  lack  of  the 
excitement  of  some  new  want.  I  have  every  thing  I  wish,  yot 
enjoy  nothing." 

7.  "Thy  case  is  beyond  my  skill,"  replied  the  caliph;  and 
the  man  cursed  wifli  the  fruition  of  all  iiis  desires  turned  hiss 
back  on  him  in  despair.      The  caliph,  after  thanking  him  for  bis 

*  K6  rin.  tbo  Muhamtnf  dan  book  of  faith. 


THE    DKSEliTKD    VILLAGE.  183 

hospitalit}',  Jcpartcd  with  his  companions,  and  when  they  had 

reached  the  street  exclaimed — 

8.  "Allah  preserve  me!    I  w^ill  no  longer  fatigue  myself  in  a 

vain  pursuit,  for  it  is  impossible  to  confer  happiness  on  such  a 

perverse  generation.     I  see  it  is  all  the  same,  whether  a  man 

wants  one  thing,  every  thing,  or  nothing.     Let  us  go  home  and 

sleep.-'  J.  K.  Paulding. 

JaiMes  Kirke  Paulding  was  born  August  'J'i,  1779,  in  the  town  of  Pawling,  on 
the  Hudson,  so  named  from  one  of  his  ancestors.  After  receiving  a  liberal  edu- 
cation, he  removed  to  New  York  City,  where  he  has  since  principally  resided. 
After  writing  some  trifles  for  the  gazettes,  Mr.  Paulding,  with  Washington 
Irving,  established  a  periodical  entitled  "  Salmagundi,"  in  1807.  It  met  with 
extraordinary  success,  and  was,  perhaps,  the  determining  cause  of  the  author's 
subsequent  devotion  to  literature.  In  1819,  Mr.  Paulding  pubhshed  a  second 
series  of  the  "  Salmagundi,"  of  which  he  was  the  sole  author.  He  is  a  voluminous 
writer.  His  various  works,  including  stories,  essays,  and  other  papers,  which  he 
has  published  in  periodicals,  make  more  than  thirty  volumes.  "The  Dutch- 
man's Fireside,"  published  in  1831,  and  "  Westward  IIo,"  published  the  next 
year,  are  regarded  as  his  best  novels.  They  are  distinguished  for  considerable 
descriptive  powers,  skill  in  character-writing,  natural  humor,  and  a  strong  na- 
tional Jeeling,  which  gives  a  tone  to  all  his  works.  Mr.  Paulding  was  many 
years  navy  agent  for  the  iwrt  of  New  York.  When  President  Van  Buren 
formed  his  cabinet,  in  the  spring  of  1837,  he  was  selected  to  be  the  head  of  the 
navy  department,  in  which  oflice  he  continued  for  four  years.  Though  this  vet- 
eran author  is  now  nearly  eighty,  he  still  retains  his  intellectual  vigor. 


48.   The  Deserted  Village. 

1.  OWEET  Auburn!  loveliest  village  of  the  plain, 

^  Where'  health  and  plenty  cheer'd  the  laboring  swain, 

Where  smiling  Spring  its  earliest  visit  paid, 

And  parting  Summer's  lingering  blooms  delay'd ; 

Dear,  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease, 

Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could  please, 

How  often''  have  I  loiter'd  o'er  thy  green. 

Where  humble  happiness  endear'd  each  scene ! 

llow  often  have  I  paused  on  every  charm, — 

The  shelter'd  cot,  the  cultivated  farm, 

The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill. 

The  decent  church^  that  topp'd  the  neighboring  hill, 

•  Where  (wl  &r).--»  Often  lof  fi.)  -»Cliuvcb  (diSrclj). 


18  f  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Tlie  hawthorn  bush,  wifli  seats  bencafli  the  sliade, 
For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made ! 

2.  IIow  often  have  I  blossM  the  coming  day, 
When  toil  remitting  lent  its  aid  to  play. 
And  all  the  village  train,  from  labor  free, 

Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree ! 

While  many  a  pastime'  circled^  in  Ihe  shade, 

The  young  contending  as  the  old  gurvey'd ; 

And  many  a  gambol  frolick'd  o'er  the  ground, 

And  sleiffhts  of  art  and  feats  of  strenirth  went  round. 

And  still,  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tired. 

Succeeding  sports  the  mirthfuP  band  inspired : 

The  dancing*  pair,*  that  simply  sought  renown 

By  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down ; 

The  swain,  mistruotlcss  of  his  smutted  face, 

While  secret  laughter^  tittcr'd  round  the  place ; 

The  bashful  virgin's'  sidelong  looks  of  love, 

The  matron's  glance*'  that  would  those  looks  reprove: 

These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village!  sports  like  these, 

With  sweet  succession,  taught  e'en  toil  to  please ; 

These  round  thy  bowers  their  cheerful  influence  shed, 

These  were  thy  charms; — but  all  these  charms  are  fled. 

3.  Sweet,  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn, 

Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  withdrawn : 

Amid  thy  bowers  the  tyi'^^nt's  hand  is  seen, 

And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green ; 

One  only  master  grasps^  the  whole  domain, 

And  half"  a  tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain. 

No  more  thy  glassy"  brook  reflects  the  day, 

But,  choked  wifti  sedges,  works  its  weedy  way; 

Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary  guest, 

Tlie  hollow-sounding  bittern  guards  its  nest ; 

Amid  thy  desert  walks  the  lapwing  flies. 

And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries. 

»  Pis'  time.-'  Circled  (s6r'  kid).—'  Mirthful  (mSrtli'  ful).—*  DSu'dng 
—' P&ir.—«  Laughter  (iSf'ter).— '  Virgin  (v5r' jin).— 'Giance.— •GrAspa 
— "HdZf.— »>GliV^s'y. 


THE    DESERTED   VILLAGE.  '  185 

Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all, 
A.ntl  the  long  grass'  o'ertops  the  moldei'ing  wall; 
And,  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler's  hand. 
Far,  far  away  thy  children  leave  the  land. 

i.  Ill  fares'  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a  prey, 
Where  wealth  accumulates,  and  men  decay  : 
Princes  and  lords  may  flourish  or  may  lade ; 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  made ! 
But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride, 
When  once  destroyed  can  never  be  supplied. 
A  time  there  was,  ere'  England's  griefs  began. 
When  every  rood  of  ground  maintain'd  its  man 
For  him  light  labor  spread  her  wholesome  store, 
Just  gave  what  life  required,  but  gave  no  more; 
Ilis  best  companions,  innocence  and  health ; 
And  his  best  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth. 
But  times  are  alter'd  :  trade's  unfeeling  train 
Usurp^  the  land,  and  dispossess  the  swain ; 
Along  the  lawn,  where  scatter'd  hamlets  rose, 
Unwieldy  wealth  and  cumbrous  pomp  repose ; 
And  every  want  to  luxury  allied. 
And  every  pang  that  folly  pays  to  pride. 
Those  gentle  hours  that  plenty  bade  to  bloom. 
Those  calm  desires  that  ask'd*  but  little  room, 
Those  healthful  sports  that  graced  the  peaceful  sc^nc, 
Lived  in  each  look,  and  brighten'd  all  the  green ; — 
These,  far  departing,  seek  a  kinder  shore. 
And  rural®  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 

b.  Sweet  Auburn  !  parent^  of  the  blissful  hour. 
Thy  glades  forlorn  confess  the  tyrant's  power. 
Here,  as  I  take  my  solitary  rounds. 
Amid  thy  tangling  walks  and  ruin'd*  grounds, 
And,  many  a  year  elapsed,  return  to  view 
Where  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  hawthorn  grew, 
Remembrance  wakes  with  all  her  busy  train, 

'GiSss.— "Fiires   (f^rz).— »  Eve   (&r).—«  Usurp   (yudvi/).—   Asked 
(dbljt)  —•Rural  (r6' ral).— '  P&v' erit.—«  Ruined  (rS'ind). 


ISO  NA■^o^•Al.  vivin  ukadkk. 

Swells  at  my  breast,  and  tuitis'  the  past^  to  pain. 
In  all  my  wanrl^^-ir.gs  round  this  world^  of  care/ 
In  all  my  griefs — and  God  lias  given  my  share* — 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  latest  hours  to  crown, 
Amid  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  mc  down ; 
To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  close, 
And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  repose . 
I  still  had  hopes, — for  pride  attends  us  still, — 
Amid  the  swains  to  show  my  book-learn' d^  skill 
Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw, 
And  tell  of  all  I  felt  and  all  I  saw ; 
And  as  a  hare,^  whom  hounds  and  horns  pursue, 
Pants^  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  she  ficw, 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past. 
Here  to  return^ — and  die  at  home  at  last.'" 

6.  0  bless'd  retirement !  friend  to  life's  decline, 
Retreat  from  care,  that  never  must  be  mine. 
How  bless'd  is  he  who  crowns,  in  shades  like  these, 
A  youth^'  of  labor  with  an  age  of  ease ; 
Who  quits  a  world  where  strong  temptations  try, 
And,  since  'tis  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly ! 
For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work^^  and  weep. 
Explore  the  mine,  or  tempt  the  dangerous  deep ; 
Nor  surly'^  porter  stands,  in  guilty  state. 
To  spurn'^  imploring  famine  from  the  gate; 
But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end. 
Angels  around  befriending  virtue's'^  friend ; 
Sinks  to  the  grave  wifh  unpcrceived  decay, 
While  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way ; 
And  all  his  prospects  brightening  to  the  last, 
His  heaven  commences  ere  the  world  he  past. 

7    Sweet  was  the  sound,  when  6ft,  at  evening's  close, 
Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur'®  rose : 

'  Turns  (tSrnz).— »  Pilst.— »  World  (wSrld).— *  C&rc.— » ShUre.— •  Book- 
learn'd  (buk'-l5rnd).— '  Hare.-"  Pdnts.— '  Return  {vh  tern').— '°  List.— 
»'  YSutli.  —  "  Work  (vvSrk).  — "Surly  (sSr' II). —  »*  Spurn  (spSru).— 
*'  Virtue  (vert'  yu). — '•  Miirmur  (m6r'  mcr). 


TiiK    L)KSi:UTEJ)    VILLAGK.  187 

There,'  as  I  passVP  with  careless  stops  and  slow 
The  mingling  notes  came  softcn'd  from  below; 
The  swain  responsive  as  the  milkmaid  sung, 
The  sober  herd^  that  low'd  to  meet  their  young; 
The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o'er  the  pool, 
The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from  school; 
The  watch-dog's  voice  that  bay'd  the  whispering  wind, 
And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant  mind : 
These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the  shade. 
And  fiU'd  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made. 

But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail, 

No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale. 

No  busy  steps  the  grass-grow^n  footway  tread, 

But  all  the  bloomy  flush  of  life  is  fled : 

All  but  yon  widow'd,  solitary  thing, 

That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plashy  spring : 

She,  wretched  matron,  forced  in  age,  for  bread, 

To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cresses  spread, 

To  pick  her  wintry  fagot  from  the  thorn, 

To  seek  her  nightly  shed,  and  weep  till  morn — 

She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train, 

The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain. 


'•]^ 


49.   The  Deserted  Village — continued. 

EAR  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiled, 
And  still  where  many  a  garden-flower  grows  wild, 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose, 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 
A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear, 
And  passing  rich  wiCh  forty  pounds  a  year ; 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race. 
Nor  e'er"  had  changed,  nor  wish'd  to  change,  his  place. 
Unskillful  he  to  fawn  or  seek  for  power, 
By  doctrines  fashion'd  to  the  varying  hour : 

'Thore  (tbV)  -  *  Passed  (pa^tj—  ll^al  — *  K'er  (&r). 


188  NAllONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learn'd  to  prize, 
More  bent  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 

2.  His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train : 
lie  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their  pain ; 
The  long-remember'd  beggar  was  his  guest, 
Whose  beard,  descending,  swept  his  aged  breast ; 
The  ruin'd  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 
Claim'd  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allow'd. 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay. 

Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talk'd  the  night  away, 
"Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or,  tales  of  sorrow  done, 
Shoulder'd  his  crutch,  and  show'd  how  fields  were  won. 
Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learn'd  to  glow, 
And  quite  forgot  their^  vices  in  their  woe ; 
Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan, 
ITis  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

3.  Thus,  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 
And  even  his  failings  lean'd  to  virtue's  side ; 
But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 

lie  watch'd  and  wept,  he  pray'd  and  felt,  for  all. 
And,  as  a  bird'  each  fond  endearment  tries 
To  tempt  its  new-fledged  6fl*spring  to  the  skies, 
lie  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay. 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 
Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid. 
And  sSrrow,  guilt,  and  pain  by  turns  dismay'd, 
The  reverend  champion  stood.     At  his  control, 
Despair'  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul ; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise, 
And  his  la.st  faltering  accents  whisper'd  praise. 

4.  At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace, 
llis  looks  adorn'd  the  venerable  place ; 
Truth^  from  his  lips  prevail'd  with  double  sway. 
And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  remain'd  to  pray. 
The  service'  past,  around  the  pious  man, 

' Their  (tb&r).-^ «  Bir.l  (bfir.b.     •  Dc  Bp&a-'.— * rruth  (ti6th).— » SSr'  vice. 


THE    DliSKli'lED    VILLAGF.  189 

With  steady  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran ; 

Even  children  follow'd  with  endearing  wile, 

And  pluck'd  his  gown  to  share  the  good  man's  smile. 

His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  express'd ; 

Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares  distress'd : 

To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs,  were  given, 

But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven. 

As  some  tall  cliff,  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 

Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm, 

Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread. 

Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

5.  Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts'  the  way, 
Wifli  blossom'd  furze**  unprofitably  gay, 
There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skill'd  to  rule,' 
The  village  master^  tauo^ht  his  little  school : 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern*  to  view  : 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant*  knew; 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learn'd  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters'  in  his  morning  face ; 
Full  well  they  laugh'd  with  counterfeited  glee 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he ; 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper,  circling  round, 
Convey'd  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frown'd, 

6   Yet  he  was  kind,  or,  if  severe  in  aught, 
The  love  he  bore  to  learning*  was  in  fault ; 
The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew — 
'Twas  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher  too ; 
Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage. 
And  e'en  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge. 
In  arguing,  t'o,  the  parson  own'd  his  skill. 
For  e'en  though  vanquish'd,  he  could  argue  still ; 
While  words  of  learned  length  and  thundering  sound 
Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around ; 
And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew. 
That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 

» Skirts  (skirts).—'  Furze  (firz;.— "  Rule  (r6l).— *  Mds'  ter  ~» St^m.— 
•  Truant  (tr6' aut).— '  Disasters  (diz  Ils'  terz). — *  L§aru'  iug. 


190  NATIONAL    FH'-ril    liEADKK. 

But  past  is  all  his  fame.    The  vSry  spot 
Where  many  a  time  he  tiiumph'd  is  foigot. 

7.  Near  yonder  thorn,  that  lifts  its  head  on  high, 
Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  pjissing  eye, 
Low  lies  that  house  where  nut-brown  draughts'  inspired 
Where  graybfiard  mirth  and  smiling  toil  retired, 
Where  village  statesmen  talk'd  with  looks  profound, 
And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went  round. 
Imagination  fondly  stops  to  trace 
The  parlor  splendors  of  that  festive  place ; 
The  whitewash'd  wall,  the  nicely-sanded  floor, 
The  varnish'd  clock  that  click'd  behind  the  door; 
The  chest,  contrived  a  double  debt  to  pay, 
A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day ; 
The  pictures  placed  for  ornament  and  use. 
The  twelve  good  rules,^  the  royal  game  of  goose ; 
The  hearth,'  except  when  winter  chill'd  the  day, 
With  aspen  boughs,  and  flowers,  and  fennel  gay  ; 
While  broken  teacups,  wisely  kept  for  show. 
Ranged  o'er  the  chimney,  glisten'd  in  a  row. 

8    Vain, transitory  splendors!  could  not  all 
Reprieve  the  tottering  mansion  from  its  fall  ? 
Obscure  it  sinks,  nor  shall  it  more  impart 
An  hour's  importance  to  the  poor  man's  heart ; 
Thither,  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair* 
To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care ; 
No  more  the  farmer's  news,  the  barber's  tale. 
No  more  the  woodman's  ballad  shall  prevail ; 
No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall  clear, 
Relax  his  ponderous  strength,  and  learn  to  hear ; 
The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round ; 
Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  willing  to  be  press'd, 
Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest. 

9.  Yes  I  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain, 
These  simple  blessings  of  the  lowly  train ; 


Drauglit  (dr^ft)  — »  Ruh'fi  (r6lz).--»  llr&ith.  -  ♦  Ue  p&»r'. 


THE   DESEllTED    VILLAGE.  191 

To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart, 
One  native  charm  than  all  the  gloss  of  art ; 
Spontaneo'is  joys,  where  nature  has  its  play, 
The  soul  adopts,  and  owns  their  first-born  sway  5 
Lightly  they  frolic  o'er  the  vacant  mind, 
Unenvied,  unmolested,  unconfined. 
But  the  long  pomp,  the  midnight  masquerade, 
With  all  the  freaks  of  wanton  wealth  arrayed, 
In  these,  ere  triflers  half  their  wish  obtain, 
The  toiling  pleasure  sickens  into  pain ; 
And  e'en  while  fashion's  brightest  arts  decoy, 
The  heart,  distrusting,  asks  if  this  be  joy. 


50.  The  Deserted  Village — concluded. 

1.  "XrE  friends  to  truth,  ye  statesmen,  who  survey 
X    The  rich  man's  joys  increase,  the  poor's  decay, 
'Tis  yours'  to  judge  how  wide  the  limits  stand 
Between  a  splendid  and  a  happy  land. 
Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted  ore, 
And  shouting  Folly  hails  them  from  her^  shore: 
Hoards  e'en  beyond  the  miser's  wish  abound. 
And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  world  around. 
Yet  count  our  gains.     This  wealth  is  but  a  namcj 
That  leaves  our  useful  products  still  the  same. 
Not  so  the  loss.     The  man  of  wealth  and  pride 
Takes  up  a  space  that  many  poor  supplied ; 
Space  for  his  lake,  his  park's  extended  bounds. 
Space  for  his  horses,  equipage,^  and  hounds ; 
The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken  sloth 
Has  robb'd  the  neighboring  fields  of  half  their  growth  ; 
His  seat,  where  solitary  sports  are  seen. 
Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the  green ; 
Around  the  world  each  needful  product  flies, 
For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies, 

'  Yours  ()or/;).— » lUr.- -* Equipage  (6k'  we  pij). 


t92  NATIONAL    PlVrii    KKADWl. 

WTiile  thus  the  land,  adorn'd  for  pleasure  all, 
In  barren  splendor  feebly  waits  the  fall. 

2    As  some  fair  female,  unadornM  and  plain, 

Secure  to  please  while  youth  confirms  her  reign. 

Slights  evel*y  borrow'd  charm  that  dress  supplies. 

Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her  eyes ; 

But  when  those  charms  are  past — for  charms  are  fniil- 

When  time  advances,  and  when  lovers  fail. 

She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless. 

In  all  the  glaring'  impotence  of  dress ; — 

Thus  fares  the  land  by  luxury  betray'd. 

In  nature's  simplest  charms  at  first  array'd ; 

But,  verging^  to  decline,  its  splendors  rise, 

Its  vistas  strike,  its  palaces  surprise ; 

While,  scourged^  by  famine  from  the  smiling  land, 

The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble  band  ; 

And  while  he  sinks,  without  one  arm  to  save, 

The  country  blooms — a  garden  and  a  grave. 

8.  Where,  then,  ah !  where  shall  Poverty  reside, 
To  escape  the  pressure  of  contiguous  Pride  ? 
If  to  some  common's  fenceless  limits  stray'd, 
lie  drives  his  flock  to  pick  the  scanty  blade, 
Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of  wealth  divide, 
And  e'en  the  bare-worn  common  is  denied. 
If  to  the  city  sped — what  waits  him  there  ? 
To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share ; 
To  see  ten  thousand  baneful  arts  combined 
To  pamper  luxury  and  thin  mankind ; 
To  see  each  joy  the  sons  of  Pleasure  know 
Extorted  from  his  fellow-creature's  woe. 
Here,  while  the  courtier  glitters  in  brocade. 
There,  the  pale  artist  plies  the  sickly  trade; 
Here,  while  the  proud  their  long-drawn  pomp  display, 
There,  the  black  gibbet  glooms  beside  the  way ; 
The  dome  where  IMcasure  holds  her  midnight  reign, 
Here,  richly  deck'd,  admits  the  gorg/cous  train ; 

» ai&r'  ing.~«  V5rg'  ing.— » Sconrgwl  (skSvjd). 


fUK    DKSERIKD    V1LJ.AGE.  ^     193 

tumultuous  Grandeur  crowds  the  blazing  square, 
The  rattling  cliariots  clash,  the  torches  glare. 

4.  Sure  scenes  like  these  no  troubles  e'er  annoy  ! 
Sure  these  denote  one  universal'  joy ! 
Are  these  thy  serious  thoughts  ? — Ah !  turn  thine  eyes 
Where  the  poor,  houseless,  shivering  female  hes : 
She  once,  perhaps,  in  village  plenty  bless'd, 
Has  wept  at  tales  of  innocence  distrest ; 
Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn, 
Sweet  as  the  primrose  peeps  beneafli  the  thorn ; 
Now  lost  to  all,  her  friends,  her  virtue  fled, 
Near  her  betrayer's  door  she  lays  her  head, 
And,  pinch'd  wifli  cold,  and  shrinking  from  the  shower, 
With  heavy  heart  deplores  that  luckless  hour, 
When  idly  first,^  ambitious  of  the  town. 
She  left  her  wheel  and  robes  of  country  brown. 

6.  Do  thine,  sweet  Auburn,  thine,  the  loveliest  train, 
Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain  ? 
E'en  now,  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger  led. 
At  proud  men's  doors  they  ask  a  little  bread ! 
Ah,  no.     To  distant  climes,  a  dreary  scene. 
Where  half  the  convex  world  intrudes  between, 
Through  torrid  tracts  wifli  fainting  steps  they  go. 
Where  wild  Altama  muimurs  to  their  woe. 
Far  different  there  from  all  that  charm'd  before, 
The  various  terrors  of  that  horrid  shore ; 
Those  blazing  suns  that  dart  a  downward  ray. 
And  fiercely  shed  intolerable  day ; 
Those  matted  woods  where  birds  forget  to  sing, 
But  silent  bats  in  drowsy  clusters  cling ; 
Those  poisonous  fields  wifli  rank  luxuriance  crown'd, 
Where  the  dark  scorpion  gathers  death  around : 
Where  at  each  step  the  stranger  fears  to  wake 
The  rattling  terrors  of  the  vengeful  snake ; 
Where  crouching  tigers  wait  their  hapless  prey, 

» Square  (skw&r)  —  U  ni  v5r'  aal.— •  First  (fSrst). 


194  NATIONAL   FIFTH    EILU)EK. 

And  savage  men,  more  murderoas'  still  than  they  ; 
Wliile  oft  in  whirls^  the  mad  tornado  flies, 
Mingling  the  ravaged  landscape  with  the  skies. 

6.  Far  diflferent  these  from  every  former  scene, — 
The  cooling  brook,  the  grassy-vested  green, 
The  breezy  covert  of  the  warbling  grove, 
That  only  shelter'd  thefts  of  harmless  love. 

Good  Heaven !  what  sorrows  gloom'd  that  parting  day, 
That  call'd  them  from  their  native  walks  away; 
When  the  poor  exiles,  every  pleasure  past, 
Hung  round  the  bowers,  and  fondly  look'd  their  last, 
And  took  a  long  farewell,  and  wish'd  in  vain 
For  seats  like  these  beyond  the  western  main ; 
And  shuddering  stiD  to  face  the  distant  deep, 
Retuwi'd  and  wept,  and  still  return'd  to  weep ! 

7.  The  good  old  sire  the  first  prepared  to  go 

To  new-found  worlds,  and  wept  for  others'  woe; 
But  for  himself,  in  conscious  virtue  brave. 
He  only  wish'd  for  worlds  beyond  the  grave. 
His  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears, 
The  fond  companion  of  his  helpless  years. 
Silent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms, 
And  left  a  lover's  for  her  father's  arms. 
Wifh  louder  plaints  the  mother  spoke  her  woes, 
And  bless'd  the  cot  where  every  pleasure  rose ; 
And  kiss'd  her  thoughtless  babes  with  many  a  tear, 
And  clasp'd^  them  close,  in  sorrow  doubly  dear ; 
While  her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend  relief, 
In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. 

8.  Oh,  Luxury !  thou  cursed^  by  Heaven's  decree, 
How  ill-exchanged  are  things  like  these  for  thee ! 
How  do  thy  potions,  wifh  insidious  joy. 
Diffuse  their  pleasures  only  to  destroy ! 
Kingdoms  by  thee  to  sickly  greatness  grown, 
Boast  of  a  fldrid  vigor  not  their  own. 


^Murderous  (mSr' der  &s). — 'Whirls  (whirls). — •  Clisped.—    Cnrsod 
(kfirst). 


THE  desp:rted  village.  195 

At  every   Iraught  more  large  and  large  th.ly  grow, 
A  bloated  mass'  of  rank,  unwieldy  woe ; 
Till,  sapp'd  their  strength,  and  every  part  unsound, 
Down,  down  they  sink,  and  spread  a  ruin  round. 

.9    E'en  now  the  devasta'tion  is  begun. 

And  half  the  business  of  destruction  done ; 
E'en  now,  methinks,  as  pondering  here  I  stand, 
I  see  the  rural  virtues  leave  the  land. 
Down  where  yon  anchoring  vessel  spreads  the  sail, 
That,  idly  waiting,  flaps  with  every  gale. 
Downward  they  move,  a  melancholy  band. 
Pass  from  the  shore,  and  darken  all  the  strand. 
Contented  Toil,  and  hospitable  Care, 
And  kind  connubial  Tenderness,  are  there ; 
And  Piety,  with  wishes  placed  above. 
And  steady  Loyalty,  and  faithful  Love. 

10   And  thou,  sweet  Poetiy  !  thou  loveliest  maid, 
Still  first  to  fly,  where  sensual  joys  invade ! 
Unfit,  in  these  degenerate  times  of  shame. 
To  catch  the  heart,  or  strike  for  honest  Fame : 
Dear,  charming  nymph,  neglected  and  decried, 
My  shame  in  crowds,  my  solitary  pride ; 
Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss  and  all  my  woe, 
That  found'st  me  poor  at  first,  and  keep'st  me  so ; 
Thou  guide  by  which  the  nobler  arts  excel. 
Thou  nurse^  of  every  virtue,  fare  thee  well. 

1  ] .  Farewell ;  and  oh !   where'er  thy  voice  be  tried, 
On  Torno's  cliffs  or  Pambam  area's  side. 
Whether  where  equinoctial  fervors^  glow, 
Or  winter  wraps  the  polar  world  in  snow. 
Still  let  thy  voice,  prevailing  over  time, 
Redress  the  rigors  of  the  inclement  clime  ; 
And  slighted  Truth,  with  thy  persuasive  strain, 
Teach  erring  man  to  spurn  the  rage  of  gain ; 
Teach  him,  that  States,  of  native  strength  possess'ii 

'  M4ss.— «  Nurse  (n§rs).— ^  F^r'  voi 


196  NATIONi:     FIFTH    READER. 

Though  very  poor,  may  still  be  very  bless'd ; 
That  trade's  proud  empire  hastes  to  swift  decay, 
As  ocean  sweeps  the  labor'd  mole  away ; 
While  self-dependent  power  can  time  defy, 
As  rocks  resist  the  billows  and  the  sky. 

Oliver  Goilsmitii. 

Oliver  Goldsmith,  one  ot'the  most  p'easing  English  \vriters  of  tlie  eighteenth 
cen'ury,  was  born  at  Pallas,  Ireland,  in  November,  1728.  He  was  of  a  Protestant 
nnd  Saxon  family  which  had  long  been  settled  in  Ireland.  At  the  time  of  Oli- 
ver's birth,  his  father  with  difficulty  supjxjrted  his  family  on  what  he  could  earn, 
partly  as  a  curate  and  i)artly  as  a  farmer.  Soon  after,  he  was  presented  with  a 
living,  worth  about  X200  a-year,  hear  the  village  of  Lissoy,  in  Westmeath  coun- 
ty, where  the  boy  jiassed  his  youth  and  received  his  preparatory  instruction.  In 
liis  seventeenth  year  Oliver  went  up  to  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  as  a  sizar.  He 
was  quartered,  not  alone,  in  a  garret,  on  the  window  of  which  his  name,  scrawl 
ed  by  himself,  is  still  read  with  interest.  He  neglected  the  studies  of  the  place, 
stood  low  at  the  examinations,  and  led  a  life  divided  between  squalid  distress 
and  squalid  dissipation.  His  father  died,  leaving  a  mere  pittance.  Oliyer  ob- 
tained his  bachelor's  degree,  and  left  the  university.  He  was  now  in  his  twenty- 
first  year;  it  was  necessary  that  he  should  do  something;  and  his  education 
seemed  to  have  fitted  him  to  do  nothing  of  moment.  He  tiled  five  or  six  profes- 
sions, in  turn,  without  success.  He  went  to  Edinburgh  in  his  twenty-fourth 
year,  where  he  passed  eighteen  months  in  nominal  attendance  on  lectures,  and 
picked  up  some  superficial  information  about  chemistry  and  natural  history. 
Thence  he  went  to  Leyden,  still  pretending  to  study  physic.  He  left  that  cele- 
brated university  in  his  twenty-seventh  year,  without  a  degree,  and  with  no 
property  but  his  clothes  and  his  flute.  His  flute,  however,  proved  a  useful  friend. 
He  rambled  on  foot  through  Flanders,  France,  and  Switzerland,  playing  tunes 
which  everywhere  set  the  peasantry  dancing,  and  which  often  procured  for  him 
a  supper  and  a  bed.  In  1756  the  wanderer  landed  at  Dover,  England,  without  a 
shilling,  without  a  friend,  and  without  a  calling.  After  several  expedients 
failed,  the  unlucky  adventurer,  at  thirty,  took  a  garret  in  a  miserable  court  in 
Loudon,  and  sat  down  to  the  lowest  tlrudgery  of  literature.  In  the  succeeding 
six  yeari  he  produced  articles  for  reviews,  magazines,  and  news|)a|>ers ;  chil- 
dren's lx)oks ;  "An  Inquiry  into  the  State  of  Polite  Learning  in  Europe  ;"  a 
"  Lite  of  Beau  Nash."  an  excellent  work  of  its  kind ;  a  superficial,  but  very 
reatlable  "  History  of  England  ;"  and  "  Sketches  of  London  Society."  All  these 
works  were  anonymous ;  but  some  of  them  were  well  known  to  be  Goldsmith's. 
He  gradually  rose  in  tlie  estimation  of  the  booksellers,  and  became  a  ixjpular 
writer.  He  took  cliambers  in  the  more  civilized  region  of  the  Inns  of  Court,  and 
became  intimate  with  Johnson,  Reynolds,  Burke,  and  other  eminent  men.  In 
176t  he  pliblished  a  poem,  entitled  "  The  Traveler."  It  was  the  first  work  la 
which  he  put  his  name  ;  and  it  at  once  raised  him  to  the  rank  of  a  legitimate 
English  classic.  Its  execution,  though  deserving  of  much  praise,  is  far  interior 
to  ll  e  design.  No  philosophic  poem,  ancient  or  modern,  has  a  plan  so  noble, 
and  at  the  same  time  so  simple.  Soon  after  his  novel  »ie  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield," 
apf>eared,  and  rapidly  obtained  a  popularity  which  is  likely  to  last  as  long  as  our 
language.  This  was  followed  by  a  dramatic  piece,  entitled  the  "Good-natured 
Man."  It  was  acted  at  Covent  Garden  in  1708,  but  was  coldly  -eceived.  The 
author,  however,  cleared  by  his  benefit  nights,  and  by  the  sale  :  the  copyright, 
no  less  than  X500.    hi  1770  ippeared  the  "  Des€rt*»d  Village.'     lu  diction  ami 


i.i-rrrKKS.  197 

versification,  this  celebrated  poem  is  fully  eqisal,  perliai)s  superior,  to  "The 
Traveler."  In  177;{,  Goldsmith  tried  his  chance  at  Covent  Garden  with  "She 
StooDs  to  Conquer,"  an  incomparable  larce  m  five  acts,  which  met  with  unpre- 
cedented success.  While  writing  the  "  Deserted  Village"  and  "  She  iStooi>s  to 
Conquer,"  he  compiled,  lor  the  use  of  schools,  a  "  History  of  Rome,"  by  which 
he  made  ±"300  ;  a  "  History  of  England,"  by  which  he  made  £300  ;  a  "  History 
of  ( Jreece,"  for  which  he  received  £250  ;  and  a  "  Natural  History,"  for  which 
th.e  booksellers  covenanted  to  pay  him  800  guineas.  He  produced  these  works  by 
selecting,  abridging,  and  translating  into  his  own  clear,  pure,  and  flowing  lan- 
guage, what  he  found  in  books  well  known  to  the  world,  but  too  bulky  or  too  dry 
for  boys  and  girls.  His  compilations  are  widely  distinguished  from  the  compila- 
tions of  ordinary  bookmakers.  He  was  a  great,  perhaps  an  imequaled  master  of 
the  arts  of  selection  and  condensation.  He  died  on  the  4th  of  April,  1774,  in  his 
forty-sixth  year. 


51.  Letiees. 

BLESSED  be  letters ! — they  arc  the  monitors,  they  are  also 
the  comforters,  and  they  are  the  only  true  heart-talkers. 
Your  speech,  and  their  speeches,  are  conventional;  they  are 
moulded  by  circumstances ;  they  are  suggested  by  the  observa- 
tion, remark,  and  influence  of  the  parties  to  whom  the  speaking 
is  addressed,  or  by  whom  it  may  be  overheard.  Your  truest 
thought  is  modified  half  through  its  utterance  by  a  look,  a  sign, 
a  smile,  or  a  sneer.  It  is  not  individual ;  it  is  not  in^tegral :  it 
is  social  and  mixed, — half  of  you,  and  half  of  others.  It  bends, 
it  sways,  it  multiplies,  it  retires,  and  it  advances,  as  the  talk  of 
others  presses,  relaxes,  or  quickens. 

2.  But  it  is  not  so  wi&  Letters : — there  you  are,  with  only 
the  soulless  pen,  and  the  snow-white,  virgin  paper.  Your  soul 
is  measuring  itself  by  itself,  and  saying  its  own  sayings :  there 
are  no  sneers  to  modify  its  utterance, — no  scowl  to  scare ; 
nothing  is  present  but  you  and  your  thought.  Utter  it  then 
freely — write  it  down — stamp  it — burn  it  in  the  ink ! — There  it 
is,  a  true  soul-print ! 

3.  Oh,  the  glory,  the  freedom,  the  passior  of  a  letter !  It  is 
worth  all  the  lip-talk  of  the  world.  Do  you  say,  it  is  studied^ 
luide  up,  acted,  rehearsed,  contrived,  artistic?  Let  me  see  it 
then ;  let  me  run  it  over :  tell  me  age,  sex,  circumstances,  and  I 
will  tell  you  if  it  be  studied  or  real ;  if  it  be  the  merest  lip-slang 
put  into  words,  or  heart-talk  blazing  on  the  paper. 

4.  I  have  a  little  pad  ^t,  not  very  large,  tied  up  wifli  narrS^ 


198  NATIONAL    FIFl'H    RH\DER. 

crimson  ribbon,  now  soiled  with  frequent  handling,  which  far 
into  some  winter's  night  I  take  down  from  its  nook  upon  my 
shelf,  and  untie,  and  open,  and  run  over,  with  such  sorrow  and 
such  joy,  such  tears  and  such  smiles,  as  I  am  sure  make  -ne,  for 
weeks  after,  a  kinder  and  holier  man. 

5.  There  are  in  this  little  packet  letters  in  the  familiar  hand 
of  a  mother :  what  gentle  admonition — what  tender  affection  ' 
G6d  have  mercy  on  him  who  outlives  the  tears  that  such  a«.l 
monitions  and  such  affection  call  up  to  the  eye!  There  are 
others  in  the  budget,  in  the  delicate  and  unformed  hand  of  a 
loved  and  lost  sister ; — written  when  she  and  you  were  fdl  of 
glee,  and  the  best  mirth  of  youthfulness :  does  it  harm  you  to 
recall  that  mirthfulness  ?  or  to  trace  again,  for  the  hundredth 
time,  that  scrawling  postscript  at  the  bottom,  with  its  Vs  so  care- 
fully dotted,  and  its  gigantic  t^s  so  carefully  crossed,  by  the  child- 
ish hand  of  a  little  brother  ? 

6.  I  have  added  latterly  to  that  packet  of  letters :  I  almost 
need  a  new  and  longer  ribbon ;  the  old  one  is  getting  too  short. 
Not  a  few  of  these  new  and  cherished  letters,  a  former  Keverie 
has  brought  to  me ;  not  letters  of  cold  praise,  saying  it  was  well 
done,  artfully  executed,  prettily  imagined — no  such  thing;  but 
letters  of  sympathy — of  sympathy  which  means  sympathy. 

1.  It  would  be  cold  and  dastardly  work  to  copy  them ;  I  am 
too  selfish  for  that.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  they,  the  kind 
writers,  have  seen  a  heart  in  the  Reverie — have  felt  that  it  was 
real,  true.  They  know  it :  a  secret  influence  has  told  it.  What 
matters  it,  pray,  if  literally  there  was  no  wife,  and  no  dead  child, 
and  no  coffin,  in  the  house  ?  Is  not  feeling,  feeling ;  and  heart, 
heart  ?  Are  not  these  fancies  thronging  on  my  brain,  bringing 
tears  to  my  eyes,  bringing  joy  to  my  soul,  as  living  as  any  thing 
human  can  be  living  ?  What  if  they  have  no  material  type — no 
objective  form?  All  that  is  crude, — a  mere  reduction  of  ideality 
to  sense — a  transformation  of  the  spiritual  to  the  earthy — a  lev- 
eling of  soul  to  matter. 

8.  Are  we  not  creatures  of  thought  and  passion?  Is  any 
thing  about  us  more  earnest  than  that  same  thought  and  passion? 
Is  there  any  thing  more  real, — more  characteristic  of  that  great 
and  dim  destiny  to  which  we  are  born,  and  which  may  be  writ- 
ten down  in  that  terrible  w  m\ — Forever?    JiCt  those  who  will. 


LETTERS.  199 

then,  sneer  at  what  in  their  wisdom  they  call  untruth-  »-at  what 
is  false,  because  it  has  no  material  presence :  this  does  not  create 
falsity ;  would  to  Heaven  that  it  did ! 

9.  And  yet,  if  there  was  actual,  material  truth,  superadded  to 
Reverie,  would  such  objectors  sympathize  the  more?  No! — a 
thousand  times,  no ;  the  heart  that  has  no  sympathy  wife 
thoughts  and  feelings  that  scorch  the  soul,  is  dead  also — what- 
ever its  mocking  tears  and  gestures  may  say — to  a  c6ffin  or  a 
grave !  Let  them  pass,  and  we  will  come  back  to  these  cher- 
ished letters. 

10.  A  mother  who  has  lost  a  child,  has,  she  says,  shed  a  tear 
— not  one,  but  many — over  the  dead  boy's  coldness.  And 
another,  who  has  not,  but  who  trembles  lest  she  lose,  has  found 
the  words  failing  as  she  reads,  and  a  dim,  sorrow-borne  mist 
spreading  over  the  page.  Another,  yet  rejoicing  in  all  those 
family  ties  that  make  life  a  charm,  has  listened  nervously  U 
careful  reading,  until  the  husband  is  called  home,  and  the  coffin 
is  in  the  house — "  Stop !"  she  says ;  and  a  gush  of  tears  tells  the 
rest.  Yet  the  cold  critic  will  say — "  It  was  artfully  done."  A 
curse  on  him ! — it  was  not  art ;  it  was  nature. 

11.  Another,  a  young,  fresh,  healthful  girl-mind,  has  seen 
something  in  the  love-picture — albeit  so  weak — of  truth ;  and 
has  kindly  believed  that  it  must  be  earnest.  Ay,  indeed  is  it, 
fair  and  generous  one, — earnest  as  life  and  hope !  Who,  indeed, 
with  a  heart  at  all,  that  has  not  yet  slipped  away  irrep'arably 
and  forever  from  the  shores  of  youth — from  that  fairy-land 
which  young  enthusiasm  creates,  and  over  which  bright  dreams 
hover — but  knows  it  to  be  real  ?  And  so  such  things  will  be 
real,  till  hopes  are  dashed,  and  Dvsath  is  come.  Another,  a 
father,  has  laid  down  the  book  in  tears. — God  bless  them  all ! 
How  far  better  this,  than  the  cold  praise  of  newspaper  para- 
graphs, or  the  critically  contrived  approval  of  colder  friends ! 

12.  Let  me  gather  up  these  letters  carefully, — to  be  read 
when  the  heart  is  faint,  and  sick  of  all  that  there  is  unreal  aiid 
selfish  in  the  world.  Let  me  tie  them  together,  wifli  a  new, 
and  longer  bit  of  ribbon, — not  by  a  love  knot,  that  is  too  hard — 
but  by  an  easy  slipping  knot,  that  so  I  may  get  at  them  the 
better.  And  now  they  are  all  together,  a  snug  packet,  and  we 
will  label  them,  not  sen  time  atally  (I  pity  the  one  who  thinks  it), 


200 


NATIONAL   FIFTH    READER. 


but  earnestly,  and  in  the  best  meaning  of  the  term — Rkmem 

BRANCERS    OF    THE    HeART.  I.  G.  MlTCHBLL.  * 


62.  The  Settler. 

1.  TTIS  echoing  ax  the  settler  swung 
Jl  Amid  the  sea-like  solitude, 
And  rushing,  thundering,  down  were  flung 

The  Titans'  of  the  wood ; 
Loud  shriek'd  the  eagle  as  he  dashM 
From  out  his  mossy  nest,  which  crash'd 

With  its  supporting  bough. 
And  the  first  sunlight,  leaping,  flashed 

On  the  wolf's  haunt  below. 

2.  Rude  was  the  garb,  and  strong  the  frame 

Of  him  who  plied  his  ceaseless  toil : 
To  form  that  garb,  the  wild-wood  game 

Contributed  their  spoil ; 
The  soul  that  warm'd  that  frame,  disdained 
The  tinsel,  gaud,  and  glare,  that  reign'd 

Where  men  their  crowds  collect; 
The  simple  fur,  untrimm'd,  unstain'd, 

This  ftrest-tamer  deck'd. 

8.  The  pafhs  which  wound  mid  gorgeous  trees, 

The  streams  whose  bright  lips  kiss'd  their  flowers, 
The  winds  that  swell'd  their  harmonies 

Through  those  sun-hiding  bowers, 
The  temple  vast — the  green  arcade. 
The  nestling  vale,  the  grassy  glade, 

Dark  cave  and  swampy  lair ; 
These  scenes  and  sounds  majestic,  made 

Ilis  world,  his  pleasures,  there. 

'  See  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  162. — "  Titans,  in  heathe/i  mythology, 
men  of  gigantic  stature  and  force,  said  to  be  the  sons  of  Ccelus  and  Terra. 
The  wars  of  the  Titans  against  the  gods  are  very  celebrated  in  mythol- 
ogy. The  name  Titan  is  now  applied  to  any  thing  gigantic,  ap  in  this 
line  to  the  largo  trees  of  the  wood 


lilK    BIOTi'LKK.  203 

4.  His  roof  adorn'd,  a  pleasant  spot, 

Mid  the  black  logs  green  glow'd  the  grain, 
And  Aerbs  and  plants  the  woods  knew  not. 

Throve  in  the  sun  and  rain. 
The  smoke-wreath  curling  o'er  the  dell, 
The  low — the  bleat. — the  tinkling  bell, 

All  made  a  landscape  strange, 
Which  was  the  living  chronicle 

Of  deeds  that  wrought  the  change. 

5.  The  violet  sprung  at  Springes  first  tinge, 

The  rose  of  summer  spread  its  glow, 
The  maize  hung  on  its  Autumn  fringe, 

Rude  Winter  brought  his  snow ; 
And  still  the  settler  labor'd  there, 
His  shout  and  whistle  woke  the  air, 

As  cheerily  he  plied 
His  garden  spade,  or  drove  his  share 

Along  the  hillock's  side. 

6.  He  mark'd  the  fire-storm's  blazing  flood 

Roaring  and  crackling  on  its  path, 
And  scorching  earth,  and  melting  wood, 

Beneafh  its  greedy  wrath ; 
He  mark'd  the  rapid  whirlwind  shoot, 
Trampling  the  pine-tree  with  its  foot. 

And  darkening  thick  the  day 
With  streaming  bough  and  sever'd  root, 

Hurl'd  whizzing  on  its  way. 

7.  His  gaunt  hound  yell'd,  his  rifle  flashed, 

The  grim  bear  hush'd  its  savage  growl, 
In  blood  and  foam  the  panther  gnash'd 

Its  fangs  wifli  dying  howl ; 
The  fleet  deer  ceased  its  flying  bound. 
Its  snarling  wolf  foe  bit  the  ground. 

And  with  its  moaning  cry. 
The  beaver  sank  beneafli  the  wound, 

Its  pond-built  Venice'  by. 

'  Poud-huilt  Venice.    The  city  of  Venice,  one  of  the  finest  in  Euro^^, 


202  NATIONAL   FIJTH    READER. 

8.  Humble  the  lot,  yet  his  the  race, 

When  Liberty  sent  forth  her  cry, 
Who  throng'd  in  conflict's  deadliest  place, 

To  fight — to  bleed — to  die ; 
Who  cumber'd  Bunker's'  height  of  red, 
By  hope,  through  weary  years  were  led. 

And  witness'd  Yorktown's'  sun 
Blaze  on  a  nation's  banner  spread, 

A  nation's  freedom  won.  A.  B.  Street. 

Alfred  B.  Street  was  born  in  Poughkeepsie,  a  large  and  beautiful  town  ou 
the  Hudson,  on  the  18th  of  December,  1811.  His  father.  Gen.  Randall  S 
Street,  was  an  officer  in  active  service  during  our  second  war  with  England, 
and  subsequently  several  years  a  representative  in  Congress.  When  the  poet 
WEis  about  fourteen  yeaxs  of  age  his  father  removed  to  Monticello,  Sullivan 
county,  then  what  is  called  a  "  wild  county,"  though  extremely  fertile.  Its 
magnificent  scenery,  deep  forests,  clear  streams,  gorges  of  piled  rocks  and  black 
shade,  and  mountains  and  valleys,  called  into  life  all  the  faculties  that  slumber- 
ed in  the  brain  of  the  young  poet.  He  studied  law  in  the  office  of  his  father, 
and  attended  the  courts  of  Sullivan  county  for  one  year  after  his  admission  to 
the  bar ;  but  in  the  winter  of  1839  he  removed  to  Albany,  where  he  successfully 
practiced  his  profession.  For  several  years  past  he  has  been  State  Librarian 
The  most  complete  edition  of  his  poems  was  published  in  New  York,  in  1845. 
Mr.  Street  is  a  descriptive  poet,  and  in  his  peculiar  department  he  has,  perhaps, 
no  superior  in  this  country.  He  writes  with  a|)jiarent  ease  and  freedom,  from 
the  impulses  of  his  own  heairt,  and  from  actual  observations  of  life  and  nature. 


53.  The  American  Flag. 

1.  ITTHEN  Freedom,  from  her  mountain  height, 
» »     Unfurl'd  her  standard  to  the  air, 
She  tore  the  S,zure  robe  of  night. 
And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there ! 

is  built  on  82  small  islands,  separated  by  150  canals,  which  are  crossed 
by  360  bridges.  The  beaver  constructs  Lis  habitation  in  the  water,  and 
the  different  parts  have  no  communication  except  by  water,  and  henco 
the  poetical  allusion. — *  Bunker  Hill,  a  height  near  Charlestown,  Mas- 
sachusetts, celebrated  as  the  place  where  the  first  great  battle  was 
fought  between  the  British  and  Americans,  on  the  memorable  17th  of 
June,  1775. — '  Yorktown,  a  port  of  entry  in  Virginia,  celebrated  as  the 
theater  of  one  of  the  most  important  events  in  American  history — the 
final  battle  of  the  Revolutionary  war,  which  resulted  in  the  surrender 
of  Lord  Cornwallis  to  General  Washington,  on  the  lUth  of  October,  1781. 


THE    AMERICAI?    FLAG.  203 

She  mingled  wifli  its  goigeous  dyes 
The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies, 
And  striped  its  pure,  celestial  white, 
With  streakings  of  the  morning  light  * 
Then  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun 
She  call'd  her  eagle-bearer  down, 
And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand 
The  symbol  of  her  chosen  band ! 

2.  Majestic  monarch  of  the  cloud ! 

Who  rear'st  aloft  thy  regal  form, 
To  hear  the  tempest  trumping  loud, 
And  see  the  lightning  lances  driven, 

When  strive  the  warriors  of  the  storm, 
And  rolls  the  thunder-drum  of  heaven ! 
Child  of  the  sun !  to  thee  'tis  given 

To  guard  the  banner  of  the  free, 
To  hover  in  the  sulphur  smoke. 
To  ward  away  the  battle-stroke. 
And  bid  its  bl endings  shine  afar. 
Like  rainbows  on  the  cloud  of  war — 

The  harbingers  of  victory ! 

3.  Flag  of  the  brave !  thy  folds  shall  fly, 
The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  high. 
When  speaks  the  signal  trumpet  tone. 
And  the  long  line  comes  gleaming  on. 
Ere  yet  the  life-blood,  warm  and  wet. 
Has  dimm'd  the  glistening  bayonet. 
Each  soldier's  eye  shall  brightly  turn 
To  where  thy  meteor  glories  burn ; 
And  as  his  springing  steps  advance. 
Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance ! 
And  when  the  cannon-mouthings  loud 
Heave  in  wild  wreaths  the  battle-shroud, 
And  gory  sabers  rise  and  fall 

Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight's  pall ; 
There  shall  thy  meteor  glances  glow. 
And  cowering  foes  shall  sink  beneafli 


*2o4  NATJONAr.    FIFTH    HEADER. 

Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below 
That  lovely  messenger  of  death. 

4.  Flag  of  the  seas !  on  ocean  wave 
Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o'er  the  brave, 
When  Death,  careering  on  the  gale, 
Sweeps  darkly  round  the  bellied  sail. 
And  frighted  waves  rush  wildly  back, 
Before  the  broadside's  reeling  rack ; 
Each  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea. 
Shall  look  at  once  to  heaven  and  thee. 
And  smile  to  see  thy  splendors  fly, 

In  triumph  o'er  his  closing  eye. 

5,  Flag  of  the  iVee  heart's  hope  and  home^ 

By  angel  hands  to  valor  given  ! 
Thy  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome, 

And  all  thy  hues  were  born  in  heaven. 
Forever  float  that  standard  sheet ! 

Where  breathes  the  foe  but  falls  before  us, 
Wi6i  Freedom's  soil  beneafli  our  feet, 

And  Freedom's  banner  streaming  o'er  us  i 

J.  R.  Drakb. 

Joseph  Rodman  Drake,  author  of  "The  Culprit  Fay,"  was  boru  i'l  the  r  ity  )f 
New  York,  on  the  7th  of  August,  ITOj.  He  entered  Columbia  f  oiiejie  at  -xu 
early  period,  through  which  he  passed  with  a  reputation  for  scholarship,  taste, 
and  admirable  social  (juaJities.  He  soon  after  made  choice  of  the  medical  pro 
fession,  and  completed  his  professional  studies  in  his  native  city.  Immediately 
after  he  was  married  to  Miss  Sarah  Eckford,  a  daughter  of  the  noted  marine 
arcliitect,  Henry  Eckford,  through  whom  he  inherited  a  moderate  fortune. 
His  health,  about  the  same  time,  began  to  decline  ;  and  in  the  winter  of  1819  he 
visited  New  Orleans.  He  had  anticipated  some  benefit  from  tlie  sea-voyage  and 
the  mild  climate  of  Louisiana,  but  was  disappointed,  and  in  the  spring  of  IftiO, 
he  returned  to  New  York.  His  disease— consumption— had  now  become  deeply 
seated.  He  lingered  tiirough  the  summer,  and  died  near  the  close  of  September, 
in  the  twenty -sixth  year  of  his  age.  He  began  to  write  vei-ses  when  very  young, 
and  w£is  a  contrijiutor  to  several  gazettes  before  he  was  sixteen  years  old.  The 
secrets  of  his  authorship,  however,  were  only  known  to  his  most  intimate  friendo. 
His  longest  poem,  "The  Culprit  Fay,"  was  composed  in  the  summer  of  1819, 
though  it  was  not  printed  until  several  years  after  his  death.  It  e.\hil)its  the 
most  delicate  fancy,  and  mucli  artistic  taste.  Drake  placed  a  very  modest  esti- 
mate on  his  own  prcnluctious,  and  it  is  thought  that  but  a  small  portion  of  them 
has  been  preserved.  A  oullection  of  th'^m  ajjpeared  in  I8;{ti.  It  iucludea,  be- 
sides "The  Culprit  Fay  "  eig.^*een  shor'.  ''ieces,  some  of  which  are  verv  H-'aa* 
tiful. 


WASHINGTON    AND   NAPOLEON.  206 


54.   "Washington  and  Kapoleon. 

NO  one,  in  tracing  the  history  of  our  struggle,  can  deny  that 
Providence  watched  over  our  interests,  and  gave  us  the  oniy 
man  who  could  have  conducted  the  car  of  the  Revolution  to  the 
LToal  it  finally  reached.  Our  Revolution  brought  to  a  speedy 
jr.HVA  the  one  that  must  soouer  or  later  have  convulsed  France. 
Une  was  as  much  needed  as  the  other,  and  has  been  productive 
)f  rqual  good. 

2.  But  in  tracing  the  progress  of  each,  how  striking  is  the 
contrast  between  the  instruments  employed — Napoleon'  and 
Washington  !'  Heaven  and  earth  are  not  wider  apart  than  were 
their  moral  characters,  yet  both  were  sent  of  Heaven  to  perform 
a  great  work.  God  acts  on  more  enlarged  plans  than  the 
bigoted  and  ignorant  have  anv  conception  of,  and  adapts  his  in- 
struments to  the  work  he  wishes  to  accomplish. 

3.  To  effect  the  regeneration  of  a  comparatively  religious,  vir- 
tuous, and  intelligent  people,  no  better  man  could  have  been 
selected  than  Washington.  To  rend  asunder  the  feudal  system' 
of  Europe,  which  stretched  like  an  iron  frame-work  over  the 
people,  and  had  rusted  so  long  in  its  place,  that  no  slow  corro- 
sion or  steadily  wasting  power  could  effect ,  its  firmness,  there 
could  have  been  found  no  better  than  Bonaparte. 

4.  Their  missions  were  as  different  as  their  characters.     Had 

'  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  first  emperor  of  the  French,  one  of  the  great- 
est of  warriors  and  statesmen,  was  born  at  Ajaccio,  in  Corsica,  on  the 
5th  of  February,  1768,  and  died  a  prisoner,  on  the  island  of  St.  Helena, 
May  5th,  1821.  From  thence  his  remains  were,  in  December,  1841. 
translated  to  Paris,  where,  on  the  15th  of  that  month,  they  were  inter- 
red in  a  mausoleum  under  the  dome  of  the  Invalids. — '  George  Wash- 
ington, commander-in-chief  of  the  army  of  independence  during  the 
American  Revolution,  first  President  of  the  United  States,  styled  the 
"  Father  of  his  Country,"  was  born  in  Westmoreland,  in  the  State  of 
Virginia,  on  the  22d  of  February,  1732.  He  retired  from  public  life  in 
1796,  and  died  on  the  14th  of  December,  1799,  leaving  a  reputation 
without  a  stain. — 'Feudal  system,  a  systsm  by  which  a  kingdom  or 
country  was  divided  into  different  portions,  among  the  chiefs  or  com- 
panions of  the  monarch,  with  the  right  of  subdividing  their  respective 
portions  among  their  immediate  followers.  The  monarch  was  called 
the  liege-lord,  and  his  dependents,  vassals  or  feudatories. 


206  NATIONAL    FIFrH    READER. 

Bonaparte  been  put  in  the  place  of  Washington,  he  would  have 
overthrown  the  Congress,  as  he  did  the  Directory/  and  taking 
supreme  power  into  his  hands,  developed  the  resources  and 
kindled  the  enthusiasm  of  this  country  wifli  such  astonishing 
rapidity,  that  the  war  would  scarcely  have  begun  ere  it  wa? 
ended.  But  a  vast  and  powerful  monarchy,  instead  of  a  repub- 
lic, would  have  occupied  this  continent.  Jad  Washington  been 
put  in  the  place  of  Bonaparte,  his  transcendent  virtues  and  nn 
swerving  integrity  would  not  have  prevailed  against  the  tyr^anny 
of  faction,  and  a  prison  would  have  received  him,  as  it  did 
Lafayette.^ 

5.  Both  were  children  of  a  revolution,  both  rose  to  the  chief 
command  of  the  army,  and  eventually  to  the  head  of  the  nation. 
One  led  his  country  step  by  step  to  freedom  and  prosperity ;  the 
other  arrested  at  once,  and  wifli  a  strong  hand,  the  earthquake 
that  was  rocking  France  asunder,  and  sent  it  rolling  under  the 
thrones  of  Europe.  The  office  of  one  was  to  defend  and  build 
up  Liberty ;  that  of  the  other  to  break  down  the  prison  walls  in 
which  it  lay  a  captive,  and  rend  asunder  its  century-bound  fetters. 

6.  To  suppose  that  France  could  have  been  managed  as 
America  was,  by  any  human  hand,  shows  an  ignorance  as  blind 
as  it  is  culpable.  That,  and  every  other  country  of  Europe,  will 
have  to  pass  through  successive  stages  before  they  can  reach  the 
point  at  which  our  revolution  commenced.  Here  Liberty  needed 
virtue  and  patriotism,  as  well  as  strength ;  on  the  Continent  it 
needed  simple  power — concentrated  and  terrible  power.  Europe 
at  this  day  trembles  over  that  volcano  Napoleon  kindled,  and 
the  next  eruption  will  finish  what  he  began.  Thus  does  Heaven, 
selecting  its  own  instruments,  break  up  the  systems  of  oppression 
men  deemed  eternal,  and  out  of  the  power  and  ambition,  as  w^ell 
as  out  of  the  virtues  of  men,  work  the  welfare  of  our  race. 

J.  T.  Headley. 


*  Di  rfect'  o  ry,  a  form  of  government  adopted  in  France  during  the 
revolution,  in  which  the  executive  power  was  vested  in  five  persons. 
— *  IiAFAYETTB  (laf  k  y§t'),  a  French  nobleman,  one  of  the  most  illustri- 
ous names  in  the  annals  of  modern  history,  was  born  in  1767.  He  aid- 
ed the  Americans  in  their  revolutionary  war.  He  held  several  offices  in 
France ;  and  though  unfortunate  during  the  French  revolution,  was 
evei  a  faithful  advocate  of  ix>u8titutional  liberty.     He  died  ^n  1884. 


NAPOLEON    AND    THE   SPHINX.  Wi 

J.  T.  Hkadley  was  born  on  the  13th  of  December,  1814,  at  Walton,  in  New 
Vork,  where  his  father  was  settled  as  a  clergyman.  He  commenced  his  studies 
with  the  law  in  view,  but  changed  his  plan,  and  after  graduating  at  Union 
College,  became  a  student  of  theology  at  Auburn.  He  was  licensed  in  New 
York,  and  offered  a  church  in  that  city ;  but  his  health  not  permitting,  he  took 
charge  of  a  small  church  in  Stockbridge,  Massachusetts.  After  two  years  and  a 
half  he  planned  a  European  tour  and  residence  for  the  recovery  of  his  health. 
He  went  to  Italy  in  the  summer  of  1842,  where  he  remained  about  eight  montlis, 
traveled  some  time  in  Switzerland,  passed  through  Germany  and  the  Nether- 
lands, went  into  Belgium,  thence  to  France,  then  over  England  and  Wales,  and 
finally  home,  having  beeji  absent  less  than  two  years.  His  health  being  worse, 
he  gave  up  his  profession,  and  turned  his  attention  to  literature.  His  first  work,  a 
translation  from  the  German,  appeared  anonymously  in  1844.  In  the  following 
year  he  gave  to  the  press  "  Letters  from  Italy,  the  Alps,  and  the  Rhine,"  and  in 
1846,  " Napoleon  and  his  Marshals,"  and  "The  t^acreil  Mountains."  He  has 
shown  his  capacity  to  write  an  agreeable  book,  and  to  write  a  popular  one.  His 
Letters  from  Italy  is  a  work  upon  which  a  man  of  taste  will  delight  to  linger. 
The  style  is  natural,  familiar,  and  idiomatic.  It  approaches  the  animation, 
variety,  and  ease  of  spoken  language.  His  later  works  appear  to  have  been 
written  more  for  popularity  and  effect  than  to  satisfy  literary  men's  ideas  of 
Axcellence.  Mr.  Headley  is  at  present  Secretary  of  State,  in  the  State  of  New 
fork. 


55.   !N'apoleon  and  the  Sphinx. 

BENEATH  him  stretch'd  the  sands  of  Egypt's  burning  lands, 
The  desert  panted  to  the  sweltering  ray ; 
The  camel's  plashing  feet,  wifli  slow,  uneasy  beat, 
Threw  up  the  scorching  dust  like  arrowy  spray. 
And  fierce  the  sunlight  glow'd,  as  young  Napoleon  rode 
Around  the  Gallic  camp,  companionless  that  day. 

2.  High  thoughts  were  in  his  mind,  unspoken  to  his  kind ; 

Calm  was  his  face — his  eyes  were  blank  and  chill ; 
His  thin  lips  were  compress'd :  the  secrets  of  his  breast 

Those  portals  never  pass'd,  for  good  or  ill ; 
And  dreaded — yet  adored — his  hand  upon  his  sw;ord, 

He  mused  on  Destiny,  to  shape  it  to  his  will. 

3.  "Ye  haughty  Pyramids !  thou  Sphinx !'  whose  eyeless  lids 

On  my  presumptuous  youth  seem  bent  in  scorn, 

*  Sphinx,  a  monster  both  in  Grecian  and  Egyptian  mythology,  usually 
represented  with  the  body  of  a  lion  and  the  face  of  a  young  woman. 
The  Grecian  sphinx  was  cruel  and  bloodthirsty,  proposing  riddles  to  the 
passers-by,  whom  she  <levoiiTe<l  if  they  could  not  exv>laiu  them.     The 


208  NATIONAL    FlKrU    READ  Eli. 

What  though  thou  hast  stood  coeval'  wifli  the  flood — 
Of  ali  earth's  monuments  the  earliest  born ; 

A.nd  I  so  mean  and  small,  with  armies  at  my  call, 
Am  recent  in  thy  sight  as  grass  of  ygster-mor^i ! 

4.  "  Yet  in  this  soul  of  mine  is  strength  as  great  as  thine, 

O  dull-eyed  Sphinx,  tnat  wouldst  despise  me  now ; 
Is  grandeur  like  thine  own,  0  melancholy  ston*^. 

With  forty  centuries  fiirrow'd  on  thy  brow : 
Deep  in  my  heart  I  feel  what  time  shall  yet  reveal. 

That  I  shall  tower  o'er  men,  as  o'er  these  deseits  thon. 

5.  "  I  shall  upbuild  a  name  of  never-dying  fame, 

My  deeds  shall  fill  the  world  with  their  renown : 
To  all  succeeding  years,  the  populous  hemispheres 

Shall  pass  the  record  of  my  glories  down ; 
And  nations  yet  to  be,  surging  from  Time's  deep  sea, 

Shall  teach  their  babes  the  name  of  great  Napoleon. 

6.  "  On  History's  deathless  page,  from  wondering  age  to  age. 

New  light  and  reverence  o'er  that  name  shall  glow. 
My  deeds  already  done,  are  histories  begun. 

Whose  great  conclusion  centuries  shall  not  know, 
0  melancholy  Sphinx !  Present  with  Future  links, 

And  both  shall  yet  be  mine.     I  feel  it  as  I  go  1" 

^,  Over  the  mighty  chief  a  shadow  came  of  grief. 

The  lips  gigantic  seem'd  to  move,  and  say — 
"  Know'st  thou  his  name  that  bid  arise  ySn  Pyramid  ? 

Know'st  thou  who  piaced  me  where  I  stand  to-day  ? 
Thy  deeds  are  but  as  sand,  strewn  on  the  heedless  land : 

Think,  little  mortal,  think !  and  pass  upon  thy  way  I 

8.  "  Pass,  little  mortal,  pass !  grow  like  the  vernal  grass — 
The  autumn  sickle  shall  destroy  thy  prime. 

Egyptian  sphinx  is  the  figure  of  a  lion,  without  wings,  in  a  lying  attitude, 
the  upper  part  of  the  body  being  that  of  a  human  being.  The  sphinxes 
appear  in  Egypt  to  have  been  set  up  in  avenues  forming  the  approaches 
to  temples.  A  colossal  image  of  the  sphinx  has  been  discovered  near 
the  group  of  pyramids  at  Gheezeh,  in  Egypt.—'  Co  6'  val,  existing  at 
the  same  time  ;  of  tlio  same  age. 


A  conqueror's  account  of  himself.  209 

Bid  nations  sliont  tbe  word  vvbicii  ne'er  before  tbey  board, 

Tbe  name  of  Glory,  fearful  yet  sublime. 
The  Pbaraobs'  are  iorgot,  their  works  confess  them  not : 

Pass,  Hero !  pass !  poor  straw  upon  the  gulf  of  Time." 

Charles  Mackay.' 


56.   A  Conqueror's  Account  of  Himself. 

1.  npHE  good  of  France  and  mine  are  mix'd.    I  am 
-L   The  leaf  of  laurel  on  her  tree, — no  more : 
One  of  her  sons.     I  stand,  indeed,  the  First, 
Because  necessity  will  have  a  man 

To  front  the  aspect  of  alarming  times. 

Still  I  am  one  o'  the  people.     I  claim  not 

A  line  stretch'd  backward  beyond  Nimrod'i^  reign; 

Nor  call  on  Caesar,"  or  Semiramis,* 

To  answer  for  a  weak  or  daring  son. 

2.  I  am — myself;  the  first, — perhaps  the  last 
Of  all  my  race  who  won  or  wore  a  crown. 
Y6t  have  I  ambition  still ;  for  I  would  feel 
My  soldiers'  tears  raining  upon  my  grave ; 
And  have,  on  lasting  brass,  my  nobler  deeds 
Thus  written : — 

"  Here  lies 
NAPOLEON,  EMPEROR; 
Who  rose  by  courage  and  a  people's  will 
Up  to  a  throne  : — He  won  a  hundred  battles — 
At  Arcola,  at  Rivoli,  at  Marengo, 
At  Austerlitz,  at  Jena,  and  by  the  snows 
Of  Moscow,  and  the  Libyan  pyramids  : 

'  Pharo,  a  name  common  to  all  the  kings  of  Egypt. — '  See  Biograph- 
ical Sketch,  p.  91. — 'See  Bible,  Genesis,  10th  chapter,  8th  verse.— 
*  Caius  Julius  Cssar,  Dictator  of  Rome,  was  bom  on  the  12th  of  July, 
B.  c.  100,  and  died  by  the  hands  of  assassins,  in  the  Senate  House,  on 
the  15th  of  March,  in  the  fifty-sixth  year  of  his  age.  As  a  warrior,  a 
statesman,  and  a  man  of  letters,  Cjesar  was  one  .of  the  most  remarkable 
men  of  any  age.-  -'  Semiramis,  a  queen  of  Assyria,  wife  of  Ninus,  who 
put  hira  to  death      She  was  called  Rea,  on  account  of  her  atrocities 

14 


:ilO  NAIIONAL   FIFfH    READER. 

He  cut,  like  IIA^^NIBAL,  THE  WHITE  AlPS  THROUGH  .* 

Learning  he  raised  ;  built  public  roads  and  fountains  ; 
And  made  one  equal  Law  for  all  the  land." 

W.  B.  Peocter  • 


57.  KnKAL  Life  in  England  in  1763. 

BUT  if  aristocracy  was  not  excluded  from  towns,  still  more  did 
it  pervade  the  rural  life  of  England.  The  climate  not  only 
enjoyed  the  softer  atmosphere  that  belongs  to  the  western  side 
of  masses  of  land,  but  was  further  modified  by  the  proximity  of 
every  part  of  it  to  the  sea.  It  knew  neither  long-continuing 
heat  nor  cold;  and  was  more  friendly  to  daily  emplo}Tnent 
throughout  the  whole  year,  within  doors  or  without,  than  any 
in  Europe. 

2.  The  island  was  "a  little  world"  of  its  own;  wifti  a  "happy 
breed  of  men"  for  its  inhabitants,  in  whom  the  hardihood  of  the 
Norman  was  intermixed  with  the  gentler  qualities  of  the  Celt 
and  the  Saxon,  just  as  nails  are  rubbed  into  steel  to  temper  and 
harden  the  Damascus  blade.  They  loved  country  life,  of  which 
the  mildness  of  the  clime  increased  the  attractions ;  since  every 
grass  and  flower  and  tree  that  had  its  home  between  the  remote 
north  and  the  neighborhood  of  the  tropics  would  live  abroad, 
and  such  only  excepted  as  needed  a  hot  sun  to  unfold  their 
bloom,  or  concentrate  their  aro'ma,  or  ripen  their  fruit,  would 
thrive  in  perfection ;  so  that  no  region  could  show  such  a  varied 
wood.  The  moisture  of  the  sky  favored  a  soil  not  naturally 
very  rich ;  and  so  fructified  the  earth,  that  it  was  clad  in  per- 
petual verdure. 

3.  Nature  had  its  attractions  even  in  winter.  The  ancient 
trees  were  stripped  indeed  of  their  foliage;  but  showed  more 
clearly  their  fine  proportions,  and  the  undisturbed  nests  of  the 
noisy  rooks  among  their  boughs;  the  air  was  so  mild,  that  tlir 
flocks  and  herds  still  grazed  on  the  freshly  springing  Aerbagc ; 
and  the  deer  found  shelter  enough  by  crouching  amongst  the 
fern ;   the  smoothly  shaven  grassy  walk  was  sSft  and  yielding 

» See  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  128. 


KUKAL    LIFE    IN    ENGLAND.  211 

under  the  foot ;  nor  was  there  a  month  in  the  year  in  which  the 
plow  was  idle. 

4.  The  large  landed  proprietors  dwelt  often  in  houses  which 
had  descended  to  them  from  the  times  when  England  was 
gemmed  all  over  with  the  most  delicate  and  most  solid  struc- 
tures of  Gothic  art.  The  very  lanes  were  memorials  of  eai'ly 
days,  and  ran  as  they  had  been  laid  out  before  the  Conquest ; 
and  in  mills  for  grinding  corn,  water-wheels  revolved  at  theii 
work  just  where  they  had  been  doing  so  for  at  least  eight  hun- 
dred years.  Hospitality  also  had  its  traditions ;  and  for  untold 
centuries  Christmas  had  been  the  most  joyous  of  the  seasons. 

5.  The  system  was  so  completely  the  ruling  element  in  Eng- 
lish history  and  English  life,  especially  in  the  country,  that  it 
seemed  the  most  natural  organization  of  society,  and  was  even 
endeared  to  the  dependent  people.  Hence  the  manners  of  the 
aristocracy,  without  haughtiness  or  arrogance,  implied  rather 
than  expressed  the  consciousness  of  undisputed  rank ;  and  female 
beauty  added  to  its  loveliness  the  blended  graces  of  dignity  and 
humility — most  winning,  where  acquaintance  with  sorrow  had 
softened  the  feeling  of  superiority,  and  increased  the  sentiment 
of  compassion. 

6.  Yet  the  privileged  class  defended  its  rural  pleasures  and  its 
agricultural  interests  wifli  impassioned  vigilance.  The  game 
laws  parceling  out  among  the  large  proprietors  the  exclusive 
right  of  hunting,  which  had  been  wrested  from  the  king  as  too 
grievous  a  prerogative,  were  maintained  with  relentless  severity ; 
and  to  steal  or  even  to  hamstring  a  sheep  was  as  much  punished 
by  death  as  murder  or  treason.  During  the  reign  of  George  the 
Second,  sixty-three  new  capital  offences  had  been  added  to  the 
criminal  laws,  and  five  new  ones,  on  the  average,  continued  to 
be  discovered  annually ;  so  that  the  criminal  code  of  England, 
formed  under  the  influence  of  the  rural  gentry,  seemed  written 
m  blood,  and  owed  its  mitigation  only  to  execut've  clemency. 

7.  But  this  cruelty,  while  it  encouraged  and  hardened  offend- 
ers, did  not  revolt  the  instinct  of  submission  in  the  rural  popu- 
lation. The  tenantry,  for  the  most  part  without  permanent 
leases,  holding  lands  at  a  moderate  rent,  transmitting  the  occu- 
pation of  them  from  father  to  son  through  many  generations, 
clung  to  the  lord  of  the  manor  as  iv}   to  massive  old  walls 


212  NATIONAL    FIFTH    RKADKK. 

They  loved  to  live  in  his  light,  t*»  lean  on  his  support,  to  gather 
round  him  with  affectionate  defeieuce  rather  than  bjise  cowering; 
and,  by  their  faithful  attachment,  to  win  his  sympathy  and  care; 
happy  when  he  was  such  a  one  as  merited  their  love.  They 
caught  refinement  of  their  superiors,  so  that  their  cottages  werft 
carefully  neat,  with  roses  and  honeysuckles  clambering  to  their 
roofs.  They  cultivated  the  soil  in  sight  of  the  towers  of  the 
church,  near  which  reposed  the  ashes  of  their  ancestors  ^or  al- 
most a  thousand  years. 

8.  The  whole  island  was  mapped  out  into  territorial  parishes, 
as  well  as  into  counties,  and  the  affairs  of  local  interest,  the  as- 
sessment of  rates,  the  care  of  the  poor  and  of  the  roads,  were 
settled  by  elected  vestries  or  magistrates,  wifh  little  interference 
from  the  central  government.  The  resident  magistrates  were 
unpaid,  being  taken  from  among  the  landed  gentry ;  and  the  lo- 
cal affairs  of  the  county,  and  all  criminal  affairs  of  no  uncommon 
importance,  were  settled  by  them  in  a  body  at  their  quarterly 
sessions,  where  a  kind-hearted  landlord  often  presided,  to  appall 
the  convicted  offender  by  the  solemn  earnestness  of  his  rebuke, 
and  then  to  show  him  mercy  by  a  lenient  sentence.  Thus  the 
local  institutions  of  England  shared  the  common  character; 
they  were  at  once  the  evidence  of  aristocracy  and  the  badges  of 
liberty.  George  Bancroft. 

Mr.  Bancroft  was  bom  in  1800,  in  Worcester,  Massachusetts,  where  hw 
father  was  long  distinguished  as  a  learned  and  pious  clergyman,  and  was  grad- 
uated Bachelor  of  Arts,  at  Harvard  College,  at  the  early  age  of  seventeen.  The 
next  year  he  went  to  Europe,  and  studied  for  four  years  at  Gottingen  and  Berlin, 
and  traveled  in  Germany,  Italy,  Switzerland,  and  England.  On  his  return,  in 
1823,  he  published  a  volume  of  poems,  which  were  principally  written  while  he 
was  abroad.  He  soon  after  established  the  academy  of  Round  Hill,  at  North- 
ampton. He  was  appointed  collector  of  Boston  in  1838 ;  was  made  secretary  ol 
the  navy  in  1845 ;  was  sent  as  minister  plenipotentiary  to  England  in  1846 ;  and 
on  his  return,  in  1849,  became  a  resident  of  New  York,  where  he  has  since  de- 
voted himself  principally  to  the  composition  of  his  "History  of  the  United 
States,"  tlie  fiaii  volume  of  which  appeared  in  1854.  He  has  also  lately  pub- 
lished a  volume  of  "  Literary  and  Historical  Miscellanies."  His  "History  of 
the  United  States"  has  been  published  in  its  original  language  in  London  and 
I'aris,  anil  lias  been  translated  into  several  foreign  languages.  It  is  a  work  of 
^ireat  labor,  originality,  and  ability,  and  eminently  American,  in  the  best  sense 
of  tliat  word  as  used  in  regard  to  literature.  It  is  the  most  accurate  and  i)hilo- 
sophical  account  that  has  l)een  given  of  the  United  States ;  elaborately  and 
strongly,  yet  elegantly  written ;  and,  though  the  style  is  not  altogether  free 
from  aflectation,  contains  parts  tliat  may  be  reckoned  among  the  most  splendid 
in  all  historical  literature. 


PANEGYRIC  ON  ENGLAND.  213 


58.    Panegyric  on  England. 

IVTO  character  is  perfect  among  nations,  more  tlian  among  men ; 
L\  but  it  must  needs  be  conceded,  that,  of  all  the  States  of 
Europe,  England  has  been,  from  an  early  period,  the  most 
favored  abode  of  liberty ;  the  only  part  of  Europe,  where,  for 
any  length  of  time,  constitutional  liberty  can  be  said  to  have  a 
stable  existence.  We  can  scarcely  contem'plate  with  patience 
the  idea,  that  we  might  have  been  a  Spanish  colony,  a  Portu- 
guese colony,  or  a  Dutch  colony.  What  hope  can  there  be  for 
the  colonies  of  nations  which  possess  themselves  no  spring  of 
improvement,  and  tolerate  none  in  the  regions  over  which  they 
rule ;  whose  administration  sets  no  bright  examples  of  parlia- 
mentary independence ;  whose  languages  send  out  no  reviving 
lessons  of  sound  and  practical  science,  of  manly  literature,  of 
sound  philosophy ;  but  repeat,  with  every  ship  that  crosses  the 
Atlantic,  the  same  debasing  voice  of  despotism,  bigotry,  and 
antiquated  superstition  ? 

2.  What  citizen  of  our  Republic  is  not  grateful,  in  the  con- 
trast which  our  histoiy  presents  ?  Who  does  not  feel,  what  re- 
flecting American  does  not  acknowledge,  the  incalculable  advan- 
tages derived  to  this  land  out  of  the  deep  fountains  of  civil, 
intellectual,  and  moral  truth,  from  which  we  have  drawn  in 
England  ?  What  American  does  not  feel  proud  that  his  fathers 
were  the  countrymen  of  Bacon,^  of  Newton,^  and  of  Locke?' 

*  Francis  Bacon,  Lord  Chancellor  of  England  under  James  I.,  author 
of  the  "  Instauratio  Magna,"  was  born  in  London  on  22d  of  January, 
1561,  and  died  in  1626.  Ti\e  immortal  Englishman  possessed  a  mind  so 
vast,  with  powers  so  varied,  that  it  can  not  he  said  that  any  one  depart- 
ment of  labor,  or  species  of  activity,  belonged  to  him  peculiarly.  From 
early  manhood  Bacon  was  immersed  in  public  affairs,  intrusted  with 
very  onerous  functions :  in  the  first  rank  of  jurisconsult,  he  moved  in 
the  work  of  reforming  and  arranging  the  laws  of  England  ;  as  a  states 
man,  he  labored  effectively  in  promotion  jf  the  British  treaty  of  Union  ; 
as  a  historian,  he  produced  the  first  meritorious  history  in  English 
literature,  viz.,  the  "  Reign  of  Henry  VII.  ;"  as  orator  and  writer,  he 
had  no  equal  in  his  age  ;  and,  besides,  he  renovated  Philosophy. — '  Isaac 
Newton,  the  celebrated  mithematician  and  natural  philosopher,  author 
of  the  "Principia,"  was  born  at  Woolsthorpe,  Lincolnshire,  England, 
on  the  25th  December,  1642,  o.  s.,  and  died  the  20th  March,  1727.— 
'  TouN  LocKK.  a  name  than  which  there  is  none  higher  in  English  phil 


214  NATIONAL    FIFTH   READER. 

Who  does  not  know,  that,  while  every  pulse  of  civil  liberty  in 
the  heart  of  the  British  empire  beat  warm  and  full  in  the  bosom 
of  our  ancestors,  the  sobriety,  the  firmness,  and  the  dignity,  wifli 
which  the  cause  of  free  principles  struggled  into  existence  here, 
constantly  found  encouragement  and  countenance  from  the 
friends  of  liberty  there  ? 

3.  Who  does  not  remember,  that,  when  the  Pilgrims  went 
over  the  sea,  the  prayers  of  the  faithful  British  confessors,  in  all 
the  quarters  of  their  dispersion,  went  over  wi€li  them,  while  their 
aching  eyes  were  strained  till  the  star  of  hope  should  go  up  in 
the  western  skies  ?  And  who  will  ever  forget,  that,  in  that 
eventful  struggle  which  severed  these  youthful  republics  from 
the  British  crown,  there  was  not  heard,  throughout  our  conti- 
nent in  arms,  a  voice  which  spoke  louder  for  the  rights  of 
America,  than  that  of  Burke^  or  of  Chatham^  within  the  walls 
of  the  British  Parliament,  and  at  the  foot  of  the  British  throne? 

4.  No  :  for  myself,  I  can  truly  say,  that,  after  my  native  land, 
1  feel  a  tenderness  and  a  reverence  for  that  of  my  fathers.  The 
pride  I  take  in  my  own  country  makes  me  respect  that  from 
which  we  are  sprung.  In  touching  the  soil  of  England,  I  seem 
to  return,  like  a  descendant,  to  the  old  family  seat ;  to  come 
back  to  the  abode  of  an  aged  and  venerable  parent.  I  acknowl- 
edge this  great  consanguinity  of  nations.  The  sound  of  my 
native  language,  beyond  the  sea,  is  a  music  to  my  ear,  beyond 
the  richest  strains  of  Tuscan  softness  or  Castilian  majesty.  I 
am  not  yet  in  a  land  of  strangers,  while  surrounded  by  the  man- 
ners, the  habits,  and  the  institutions  under  which  I  have  been 
brought  up. 

5.  I  wander  delighted  through  a  thousand  scenes,  which  the 
historians  and  the  poets  have  made  familiar  to  us,  of  which  the 
names  are  interwoven  with  our  earliest  associations.     I  tread 


osophical  literature,  author  of  the  celebrated  "Essay  Concerning  the 
i-Iuman  Understanding,"  was  born  at  Wrington,  near  Bristol,  England, 
on  29th  August,  1632,  and  died  at  Gates,  in  Essex,  on  28th  October,  1704. 
— *  I'^DMUND  Burke,  a  celebrated  British  orator,  statesman,  and  philoso- 
pher, was  born  at  Dublin  on  1st  of  January,  1730,  and  died  July  8th, 
1797. — '  William  Pitt,  Earl  of  Chatham,  one  of  the  mosi  celebrated  ol 
British  statesmen  and  orators,  bom  on  the  16th  of  November,  '708,  and 
died  on  the  11th  of  May,  1778. 


PANEGYRIC  ON  ENGLAND.  215 

with  reverence  the  spots  where  I  can  retrace  the  footsteps  of 
our  suflfering  fathers :  the  pleasant  land  of  their  birth  has  a 
claim  on  my  heart.  It  seems  to  me  a  classic,  yea,  a  holy  land ; 
rich  in  the  memory  of  the  great  and  good,  the  champions  and 
the  martyrs  of  liberty,  the  exiled  heralds  of  truth ;  and  richer  as 
the  parent  of  this  land  of  promise  in  the  West. 

6.  I  am  not — I  need  not  say  I  am  not — the  panegyrist  ol 
England.  I  am  not  dazzled  by  her  riches,  nor  awed  by  her 
power.  The  scepter,  the  miter,  and  the  coronet, — stars,  garters, 
and  blue  ribbons, — seem  to  me  poor  things  for  great  men  to 
contend  for.  Nor  is  my  admiration  awakened  by  her  armies 
mustered  for  the  battles  of  Europe,  her  navies  overshadowing 
the  ocean,  nor  her  empire  grasping  the  farthest  East.  It  is 
these,  and  the  price  of  guilt  and  blood  by  which  they  are  too 
often  maintained,  which  are  the  cause  why  no  friend  of  liberty 
can  salute  her  with  undivided  aflfections. 

7.  But  it  is  the  cradle  and  the  refuge  of  free  principles, 
though  often  persecuted ;  the  school  of  religious  liberty,  the 
more  precious  for  the  struggles  through  which  it  has  passed ; 
the  tombs  of  those  who  have  reflected  honor  on  all  who  speak 
the  English  tongue ;  it  is  the  birthplace  of  our  fathers,  the  home 
of  the  Pilgrims;— it  is  these  which  I  love  and  venerate  in 
England.  I  should  feel  ashamed  of  an  enthusiasm  for  Italy  and 
Greece,  did  I  not  also  feel  it  for  a  land  like  this.  In  an  Ameri- 
can, it  would  seem  to  me  degenerate  and  ungrateful  to  hang 
with  passion  upon  the  traces  of  Homer'  and  Virgil,''  and  follow 
without  emotion  the  nearer  and  plainer  footsteps  of  Shakspeare' 
and  Milton.*     I  should  think  him  cold  in  his  love  for  his  native 

'Homer,  the  most  distinguished  of  poets,  entitled  **The  Father  of 
Song."  He  is  supposed  to  have  been  an  Asiatic  Greek,  though  his 
birth-place,  and  the  period  in  which  he  lived,  are  unknown. — ^  Viegil, 
the  most  distinguished  of  the  Roman  poets,  was  born  at  Andes,  a  small 
village  of  Mantua,  on  the  15th  of  October,  b.  c.  70.  He  died  on  the 
'1'2(\  of  September,  b.  c.  19,  before  completing  his  fifty-first  year.  His 
body  lies  buried  at  the  distance  of  two  miles  from  the  city  of  Naples. — 
'  William  Shakspeare,  the  most  celebrated  of  all  dramatists,  was  borr 
at  Stratford-upon-Avon,  England,  in  1564,  and  died  in  1616. — '*Johj 
Milton,  the  most  illustrious  English  poet,  was  born  in  London,  on  the 
9th  of  December,  1608,  and  died  on  Sunday,  the  8th  of  November, 
1675. 


216  NATIONAL    Vlh-rU.   BEADER. 

land  who  felt  no  melting  in  his  heart  for  that   other  native 
country  which  holds  the  ashes  of  his  forefathers. 

Edwaed  Evbkbtt.* 


69.   Language. 


U  O  OME  words  on  Language  may  be  well  applied ; 

K3  And  take  them  kindly,  though  they  touch  your  pride. 
Words  lead  to  things ;  a  scale  is  more  precise, — 
Coarse  speech,  bad  grammar,  swearing,  drinking,  vice. 
Our  cold  Northeaster's  icy  fetter  clips 
The  native  freedom  of  the  Saxon  lips : 
See  the  brown  peasant  of  the  plastic  South, 
How  all  his  passions  play  about  his  mouth ! 
With  us,  the  feature  that  transmits  the  soul, 
A  frozen,  passive,  palsied  breathing-hole. 

2.  The  crampy  shackles  of  the  ploughboy's  walk 
Tie  the  small  muscles,  when  he  strives  to  talk ; 
Not  all  the  pumice  of  the  polish'd  town 
Can  smooth  this  roughness  of  the  barnyard  down ; 
Rich,  honor'd,  titled,  he  betrays  his  race 
By  this  one  mark — he's  awkward  in  the  face  ;--*- 
Nature's  rude  impress,  long  before  he  knew 
The  sunny  street  that  holds  the  sifted  few. 

8.  It  can't  be  help'd ;  though,  if  we're  taken  young, 
We  gain  some  freedom  of  the  lips  and  tongue : 
But  school  and  college  often  try  in  vain 
To  break  the  padlock  of  our  boyhood's  chain ; 
One  stubborn  word  will  prove  this  axiom  true — 
No  late-caught  rustic  can  enunciate  view} 

*  See  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  89. — "The  poet  here  humorously  alludea 
to  the  difficulty  which  many  persons,  bred  in  retirement,  find  in  pro- 
nouncing this  word  correctly.  It  will  be  difficult  to  express  in  letters 
the  manner  in  which  it  is  frequently  mispronounced,  but  it  is  a  sound 
somewhat  similar  to  v6.  The  proper  pronunciation  is  vh.  They  also 
who  give  the  second  sound  of  o  in  the  words  soap,  road,  coat,  boat,  oud 
most,  come  in  for  a  small  share  of  his  lash. 


LANGUAGE.  217 

4.  A  few  brief  stanzas  may  be  well  employed 
To  speak  of  errors  we  can  all  avoid. 
Learning  condemns  beyond  the  reach  of  hope 
The  careless  churl  that  speaks  of  soap  for  soap ; 
Her  edict  exiles  from  her  fair  abode 
The  clownish  voice  that  utters  road  for  road , 
Less  stern  to  him  who  calls  his  coat  a  coat, 
And  steers  his  boat  believing  it  a  boat. 
She  pardon'd  one,  our  classic  city's  boast. 
Who  said,  at  Cambridge,  most  instead  of  most ; 
But  knit  her  brows,  and  stamp'd  her  angry  foot, 
To  hear  a  teacher  call  a  root'  a  root.' 

b.  Once  more  :  speak  clearly,  if  you  speak  at  all ; 
Carve  every  word  before  you  let  it  fall ; 
Don't,  like  a  lecturer  or  dramatic  star. 
Try  over  hard  to  roll  the  British  R ; 
Do  put  your  accents  in  the  proper  spot ; 
Don't— let  me  beg  you— don't  say  "How?"  for  "What?'" 
And  when  you  stick  on  conversation's  burs, 
Don't  strew  the  pathway  with  those  dreadful  ws.^ 

0.  W.  Holmes. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  son  of  the  late  Abiel  HoLaiEs,  D.  D.,  was  boni 
at  Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  on  the  29th  of  August,  1809.  He  received  his 
early  education  at  Phillips  Exeter  Academy,  and  entered  Harvard  University  m 
1825.  On  being  graduated,  after  a  year's  application  to  the  study  of  law,  he  re- 
linquished it,  and  devoted  himself  with  ardor  and  industry  to  the  pursuit  of 
medicine.  He  visited  Europe  in  the  spring  of  1833,  principally  residing  at  Paris 
while  abroad,  where  he  attended  the  hospitals,  became  personally  acquainted 
with  many  of  the  most  eminent  physicians  of  France,  and  acquired  an  intimate 
knowledge  of  the  language.  He  returned  to  Boston  near  the  close  of  1835,  and 
in  the  following  spring  commenced  the  practice  of  medicine  in  that  city.  He 
was  elected  Professor  of  Anatomy  and  Physiology  in  the  medical  institution 
connected  with  Deirtmouth  College,  in  1838.  but  resigned  the  place  on  his  mar- 
nage,  two  years  later.  He  soon  acquired  a  large  and  lucrative  practice,  and  bi 
1847  succeeded  Dr.  Warren  as  Professor  of  Anatomy  m  the  medical  depart- 
ment of  Harvard  University.    His  earlier  poems  appeared  in  "  The  Collegian," 

*  KSot. — "  Root  (rut). — '  The  drawling  style  in  which  many  persons 
are  in  the  habit  of  talking,  heedlessly  hesitating  to  think  of  a  word, 
and  the  meanwhile  supplying  its  place  by  the  unmeaning  syllable  '*  Mr,' 
is  here  happily  condemned.  Such  habits  may  easily  be  corrected  by  a 
little  presence  of  mind,  and  particularly  by  following  the  direction, 
lliiuli  twice  before  you  speak  once. 

10 


21S  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READKK. 

a  monttily  miscellany,  published  in  1830,  by  the  under-graduates  at  Cambridge 
His  longest  poem,  "  Poetry,  a  Metrical  Essay,"  delivered  before  a  literary  society 
at  Cambridge,  in  1835,  is  in  the  heroic  measure,  and  in  its  versification  is  not 
siupassed  by  any  poem  written  m  this  country.  He  published  "  Terpsichore," 
a  ix)em  read  at  tlie  annual  dinner  of  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society,  in  1843 ;  and 
in  1846,  "  Urania,  a  Rhyme  Lesson,"  pronounced  before  the  3Iercantile  Library 
AatJOi^iation.  Dr.  Holmes  is  a  poet  of  art  and  humor  and  genial  sentiment,  with 
a  style  rema'-kable  for  its  purity,  terseness,  and  point,  and  for  an  exquisite  finish 
and  grace.  He  possesses  the  rare  distinction  of  blending  ludicrous  ideas  with 
taiicy  and  imagination,  and  displaying  in  their  conception  and  exi)ression  the 
same  poetical  qualities  usually  exercised  in  serious  composition.  "  His  lyrica  ring 
and  sparkle  like  cataracts  of  silver,  and  his  serious  pieces  arrest  the  attention  by 
touches  of  the  most  genuine  pathos  and  tenderness." 


60.   Sound  and  Sense. 

THAT,  in  the  formation  of  language,  men  have  been  much 
influenced  by  a  regard  to  the  nature  of  the  things  and  ac- 
tions meant  to  be  represented,  is  a  fact  of  which  every  known 
speech  gives  proof.  In  our  own  language,  for  instance,  who 
does  not  perceive  in  the  sound  of  the  words  thunder,  bmmdless, 
terrible,  a  something  appropriate  to  the  sublime  ideas  intended 
to  be  conveyed  ?  In  the  word  crash  we  hear  the  very  action 
implied.  Imp,  elf, — how  descriptive  of  the  miniature  beings  to 
which  we  apply  them!  Fairy, — how  light  and  tripping,  just 
like  the  fairy  herself! — the  word,  no  more  than  the  thing,  seems 
fit  to  bend  the  grass-blade,  or  shake  the  tear  from  the  blue-eyed 
flower. 

2.  Pea  is  another  of  those  words  expressive  of  light,  diminu- 
tive objects;  any  man  born  without  sight  and  touch,  if  such 
eveij  are,  could  tell  what  kind  of  thing  a  pea  was  from  the 
sound  of  the  word  alone.  Of  picturesque'  words,  sylvan  and 
crystal  are  among  our  greatest  favorites.  Sylvan  ! — what  vis- 
ions of  beautiful  old  sunlit  forests,  with  huntsmen  and  bugle- 
horns,  arise  at  the  sound!  Crystal! — does  it  not  glitter  like 
the  very  thing  it  stands  for  ?  Y6t  crystal  is  not  so  beautiful  as 
Its  own  adjective.  Crystalline! — why,  the  whole  mind  is  light- 
ened up  with  its  shine.     And  this  superiority  is  as  it  should  be ; 

*  Picturesque  (pikt  yer  fesk'),  expressing  that  peciliur  kind  of  beauty 
that  is  pleasing  in  a  picture. 


SOUND    AND    SENSE.  219 

for  crystal  can  only  be  one  comparatively  small  object,  while 
crystalline  may  refer  to  a  mass — to  a  world  of  crystals. 

3.  It  will  be  found  that  natural  objects  have  a  larger  propor- 
tion of  expressive  names  among  them  than  any  other  things. 
The  eafjle, — what  appropriate  daring  and  sublimity !  the  dove^ — 
what  softness !  the  linnet, — what  fluttering  gentleness !  "  That 
wliich  men  call  a  rose"  would  not  by  any  other  name,  or  at  least 
by  many  other  names,  smell  as  sweet.  Lilyi — what  tall,  cool, 
pale,  lady-like  beauty  have  we  here!  Violet,  jessamine,  hya- 
cinth, a-nem'ond,  geranium  ! — beauties,  all  of  them,  to  the  ear  as 
well  as  the  eye. 

4.  The  names  of  the  precious  stones  have  also  a  beauty  and 
magnificence  above  most  common  things.  Diamond,  sapphire, 
am'ethyst,  her'yl,  ruby,  ag'ate,  pearl,  jasper,  topaz,  garnet,  emerald, 
— what  a  caskanet  of  sparkling  sounds!  Diadem  and  coronet 
glitter  wifh  gold  and  precious  stones,  like  the  objects  they  rep- 
resent. It  is  almost  unnecessary  to  bring  forward  instances  of 
the  fine  things  which  are  represented  in  English  by  fine  words. 
Let  us  take  any  sublime  passage  of  our  poetry,  and  we  shall 
hardly  find  a  word  which  is  inappropriate  in  sound.  For  ex- 
ample : — 

The  cloud-capp'd  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces, 
The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself. 
Yea,  all  which  it  inherit,  shall  dissolve. 
And,  like  this  insubstantial  pageant  faded, 
Leave  not  a  rack*  behind. 

The  "gorgeous  palaces,"  "the  solemn  temples," — how  ad'mira- 
bly  do  these  lofty  sounds  harmonize  with  the  objects ! 

5.  The  relation  between  the  sound  and  sense  of  certain  words 
is  to  be  ascribed  to  more  than  one  cause.  Many  are  evidently 
imitative  representations  of  the  things,  movements,  and  acts, 
which  are  meant  to  be  expressed.  Others,  in  which  we  only 
find  a  general  relation,  as  between  a  beautiful  thing  and  •a  beau- 
tiful word,  a  ridiculous  thing  and  a  ridiculous  word,  or  a  sublime 
idea  and  a  sublime  word,  must  be  attributed  to  those  faculties, 

*  RSck,  vapor,  or  flying  broken  clouds.  Tliis  line  is  frequently  read, 
"  Leave  not  a  wreck  behind. "  It  is  manifest,  however,  that  Shakspearp 
wrote  rack,  a  more  poetical  and  descriptive  epithet. 


220  NA'nONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

native  to  every  mind,  which  enable  us  to  perceive  and  enjoy  the 
beautitiil,  the  ridiculous,  and  the  sublime. 

6.  Doctor  Wallis,  who  wrote  upon  English  grammar  in  the 
reign  of  Charles  II.,  represented  it  as  a  peculiar  excellence  of 
our  language,  that,  beyond  all  others,  it  expressed  the  nature  of 
the  objects  which  it  names,  by  employing  sounds  sharper,  softer, 
weaker,  stronger,  more  obscure,  or  more  stridulous,'  according 
as  the  idea  which  is  to  be  suggested  requires.  He  gives  various 
examples.  Thus,  words  formed  upon  st  always  denote  firmness 
and  strength,  anal'ogous^  to  the  Latin  sto  ;  as,  stand,  stay,  staff, 
stop,  stout,  steady,  stake^  stamp,  &c. 

1.  Words  beginning  wifh  sir  intimate  violent  force  and  en- 
ergy ;  as,  strive,  strength,  stress,  stripe,  &c.  Thr  implies  forcible 
motion ;  as,  throw,  throb,  thrust,  threaten,  thraldom,  thrill :  gl, 
smoothness  or  silent  motion ;  as,  glib,  glide  :  wr^  obliquity  or 
distortion  ;  as,  wry,  wrest,  wrestle,  wring,  wrong,  wrangle,  wrath, 
ikc. :  sw,  silent  agitation,  or  lateral'  motion ;  as,  sway,  swing, 
swerve,  sweep,  swim  :  sZ,  a  gentle  fall  or  less  observable  mo- 
tion ;  as,  slide,  slip,  sly,  slit,  slow,  slack,  sling :  sp,  dissipation 
or  expansion ;  as,  spread,  sprout,  sprinkle,  split,  spill,  spring. 

8.  Terminations  in  ash  indicate  something  acting  nimbly  and 
sharply ;  as,  crash,  dash,  rash,  flash,  lash,  slash  :  terminations  in 
ushy  something  acting  more  obtusely  and  dully ;  as,  crush,  brush, 
hush,  gush,  blush.  The  learned  author  produces  a  great  many 
more  examples  of  the  same  kind,  which  seem  to  leave  no  doubt 
lliat  the  analosjies  of  sound  have  had  some  influence  on  the 
formation  of  words.  At  the  same  time,  in  all  speculations  of 
this  kind,  there  is  so  much  room  for  fancy  to  operate,  that  they 
ought  to  be  adopted  wifti  much  caution  in  forming  any  general 
theory.  Robert  Chambers. 

Robert  Chambers,  a  noted  Scottish  writer  and  publisher,  remarkable  for  his 
energy  and  industry,  was  bom  in  1801.  He,  with  his  brother  William,  com- 
menced trade  in  book-shops  in  Edinburgh ;  and,  subsequently,  became  autlior 
and  publisher.  The  brothers  are  completely  identified  with  tlie  cheap  and  useful 
literature  of  the  day,  in  this  country,  as  well  as  in  tl  e  United  Kingdom. 

*  Strld'  u  lous,  making  a  creaking  sound. — "  A  n&l'  o  gous,  corresriond- 
ent ;  having  a  similarity  with  regard  to  form,  design,  erfeets,  &c. ,  or  in 
the  relations  borne  to  other  objects. — *  L&t'  er  al,  pertaining  or  bslonging 
to  the  side  ;  from  side  to  side. 


THE    POWER   OF    WORDS  221 


61.   The  Power  of  Words. 

WORDS  are  most  effective  when  arranged  in  that  order 
vvliicli  is  called  style.  The  great  secret  cf  a  good  style,  we 
are  told,  is  to  have  proper  words  in  proper  places.  To  marshal 
one's  verbal  battalions  in  such  order  that  they  mu.-t  bear  at  once 
upon  all  quarters  of  a  subject,  is  certainly  a  great  iwt.  This  is 
done  in  different  ways.  Swift,'  Temple,''  Addison,'  Hume,''  Gib- 
bon,* Johnson,^  Burke,^  are  all  great  generals  in  the  discipline  of 
their  verbal  armies,  and  the  conduct  of  their  paper  wars.  Each 
has  a  system  of  tactics  of  his  own,  and  excels  in  the  use  of  some 
particular  weapon. 

2.  The  tread  of  Johnson's  style  is  heavj^  and  sonorous,  resem- 
bling that  of  an  elephant  or  a  mail-clad  warrior.  He  is  fond  of 
leveling  an  obstacle  by  a  polysyllablic  battering-ram.  Burke's 
vvords  are  continually  practicing  the  broad-s?/;ord  exercise,  and 
sweeping  down  adversaries  wifti  every  stroke.  Arbuthnot^ 
"  plays  his  weapon  like  a  tongue  of  flame."  Addison  draws  up 
his  light  infantry  in  orderly  array,  and  marches  through  sen- 
tence after  sentence,  without  having  his  ranks  disordered  or  his. 
line  broken. 

3.  Luthei-^  is  different.  His  words  are  "half  battle;"  "his 
smiting  idiomatic  phrases  seem  to  cleave  into  the  very  secret  of 
the  matter."     Gibbon's  legions  are  heavily  armed,  and  march 

*  Jonathan  Swift,  of  English  descent,  author  of  the  "Travels  of  Lem- 
uel Gulliver,"  was  born  at  Dublin,  in  November,  1667.  In  the  spring 
of  1713  he  was  appointed  Dean  of  St.  Patrick's  Cathedral  in  Dublin. 
As  a  writer  of  plain,  pure,  vigorous,  idiomatic  English,  Swift  has  no 
equal ;  and  he  has  hardly  any  superior  as  a  satirist.  He  died  in  Octo- 
ber, 1745. — '  Sir  William  Temple,  an  eminent  statesman  and  writer, 
born  at  London,  in  1628,  and  died  in  1700. — 'Joseph  Addison,  see  Bio- 
graphical Sketch,  p.  513.— *  David  Hume,  see  Biogi-aphical  Sketch,  p. 
157. — '  Edward  Gibbon,  See  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  77. — *  Samuel 
Johnson,  see  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  230. — ''  Burke,  see  note  1,  p.  214. 
— ^  John  Arbuthnot,  an  eminent  English  physician  of  the  17th  century, 
but  more  distinguished  as  a  man  of  wit  and  letters ;  the  associate  of 
Pope  and  Swift,  and  the  companion  of  Bolingbroke  at  the  court  of 
Queen  Anne  :  born  in  1675,  and  died  1735. — "  ILvrtin  Luther,  the  great 
German  reformer,  v<is  born  10th  November,  1483,  and  died  18th  of 
Februar>'.  1546. 


222  NATIONAL    FIPTII     READER. 

wifli  precision  and  dignity  to  the  music  of  their  own  tramp. 
They  are  splendidly  equipped,  but  a  nice  eye  can  discern  a  little 
rust  beneath  their  fine  apparel,  and  there  are  suttlers  in  his 
camp  who  lie,  cog,  and  talk  gross  obscSnity.  Macaulay,'  brisk, 
lively,  keen,  and  energetic,  runs  his  thoughts  rapidly  through 
his  sentence,  and  kicks  out  of  the  way  every  word  which  ob- 
structs his  passage.  He  reins  in  his  steed  only  when  he  has 
reached  his  goal,  and  then  does  it  with  such  celerity  that  he  is 
nearly  thrown  backward  by  the  suddenness  of  his  stoppage. 

4.  Gifford's*  words  are  moss-troopers,  that  waylay  innocent 
travelers  and  murder  them  for  hire.  Jeffrey'  is  a  fine  "  lance," 
wifh  a  sort  of  Ar'ab  swiftness  in  his  movement,  and  runs  an 
iron-clad  horseman  through  the  eye  before  he  has  had  time  to 
close  his  helmet.  John  Wilson's^  camp  is  a  disorganized  mass, 
who  might  do  effectual  service  under  better  discipline,  but  who 
under  his  lead  are  suffered  to  carry  on  a  rambling  and  predatory 
warfare,  and  disgrace  their  general  by  flagitious  excesses.  Some- 
times they  steal,  sometimes  swear,  sometimes  drink,  and  some- 
times pray. 

5.  Swift's  words  are  porcupine's  quills,  which  he  throws  wifli 
unerring  aim  at  whoever  approaches  his  lair.  All  of  Ebenezer 
Elliot's*  words  are  gifted  with  huge  fists,  to  pummel  and  bruise. 
Chatham^  and  Mirabeau^  throw  hot  shot  into  their  opponents' 
magazines.     Talfourd's*  forces  are  orderly  and  disciplined,  and 


^T.  B.  Macaulay,  see  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  155. — 'William  Gif- 
/ORD,  a  celebrated  English  writer,  for  sixteen  years  editor  of  the  "  Quar- 
terly Review,"  was  born  in  1756,  and  died  in  1826. — '  Francis  Jeffrey, 
one  of  the  most  masterly  critics,  and  most  eloquent  writers  and  orators 
in  the  English  language,  an  eminent  advocate  and  judge.  Lord  Rector 
of  the  University  of  Glasgow,  for  twenty-seven  years  editor  of  the  "  Ed- 
inburgh Review,"  was  born  at  E<linburghin  October,  1773,  and  died  at 
his  birth-place,  the  26th  of  January,  1850. — *  John  Wil.son,  a  well- 
known  and  very  eminent  Scottish  writer,  was  born  in  1785,  and  died  in 
1854. — '  Ebenezer  Elliot,  a  genuine  poet,  the  celebrated  English  "Cora 
Law  Rhymer,"  was  born  in  1781,  and  died  in  1849.— -•  Chatham,  see 
note  2,  p.  214. — "*  Miradkau,  one  of  the  greatest  orators  and  writers  of 
France,  and  the  leader  of  the  revolution,  was  born  in  1749,  and  died  in 
1791. — 'Thomas  Noon  Talfourd,  an  able  English  poet  and  prose  writer, 
an  advocate,  judge,  and  member  of  parliament,  beloved  for  his  social 
nrtues  and  kindness  of  heart,  was  N)rn  in  1795,  and  died  in  1854. 


THE   POWER    :F    W'OKDS.  223 

inarch  to  the  music  of  the  Dorian  flute ;  those  of  Keats'  keep 
time  to  the  tones  of  the  pipe  of  Phoebus  ;^  and  the  hard,  harsh- 
featured  battalions  of  Maginn,^  are  always  preceded  by  a  brass 
band.  Hallam's''  word-infantry  cai-  do  much  execution,  when 
they  are  not  in  each  other's  way.  Pope's*  phrases  are  either 
daggers  or  rapiers. 

6.  Willis's^  words  are  often  tipsy  tsifh  the  champaign  of  the 
fancy,  but  e^  en  when  they  reel  and  stagger  they  keep  the  line 
of  grace  and  beauty,  and  though  scattered  at  first  by  a  fierce 
onset  from  graver  cohorts,  soon  reunite  without  wound  or  loss. 
John  Neal's^  forces  are  multitudinous,  and  fire  briskly  at  every 
thing.  They  occupy  all  the  provinces  of  letters,  and  are  nearly 
useless  from  being  spread  over  too  much  ground.  Everett^s' 
weapons  are  ever  kept  in  good  order,  and  shine  well  in  the  sun, 
but  they  are  little  calculated  for  warfare,  and  rarely  kill  when 
they  strike.  Webster's^  words  are  thunder-bolts,  which  some 
times  miss  the  Titans  at  whom  they  are  hurled,  but  always  leave 
enduring  marks  when  they  strike. 

7.  Hazlitt's'°  verbal  army  is  sometimes  drunk  and  surly,  some- 
times foaming  with  passion,  sometimes  cool  and  malignant ;  but 
drunk  or  sober,  are  ever  dangerous  to  cope  with.  Some  of  Tom 
Moore's"  words  are  shining  dirt,  which  he  flings  with  excellent 
aim.  This  list  might  be  indefinitely  extended,  and  arranged 
with  more  regard  to  merit  and  chronology.  My  own  words,  in 
this   connection,  might  be  compared  to  ragged,  undisciplined 


'  John  Keats,  a  true  poet,  bom  in  London,  la  1796,  and  died  at 
Rome,  in  1820. — "  Phcebus,  the  Bright  or  Pure,  an  epithet  of  Apollo, 
used  to  signify  the  brightness  and  purity  of  youth,  also  applied  to  him 
as  the  Sim-god. — 'William  Maqinn,  LL.  D.,  an  able  British  writer  of 
prose  and  poetry,  a  frequent  contributor  to  "Blackwood's  Magazine," 
the  founder  of  "Frazer's  Magazine,"  was  born  at  Cork,  in  1794,  and 
died  at  Walton-on-the-Thames,  in  1842. — *  Henry  Hallam,  a  profound 
scholar,  the  gi-eatest  living  British  historian. — 'Alexander  Pope,  see 
Biographical  Sketch,  p.  227. — 'N.  P.  Willis,  see  Biographical  Sketch 
p.  341. — 'John  Neal,  an  able  American  novelist,  poet,  and  miscella- 
neous writer,  born  in  Portland,  Maine,  about  the  year  1794. — *  Edward 
Everett,  see  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  89. — "Daniel  Webster,  see  Bio- 
graphical Sketch,  p.  280. — ^"  William  HAZLrrr,  a  well-known  and  very 
pble  British  essayist  and  critic  of  art  and  poetry,  born  in  1778.  and  died 
p    f.iO  — '  T»ioMAS  MooRB,  see  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  115. 


224  NATIOJ^AL    Fn^H     READER. 

militia,  wliicli  could  be  easily  routed  by  a  cbarge   of  horse,  aud 
which  are  apt  to  fire  into  each  other's  faces.        E.  P.  Whipple. 

E.  P,  WiiirrLE,  one  of  the  youngest  and  most  briUiant  of  American  writers, 
was  born  in  Gloucester,  Massachusetts,  on  the  8th  of  Marcii,  1819.  When  four 
years  of  age,  his  family  removed  to  Salem,  where  he  attended  various  schoolfl 
until  he  was  fifteen,  when  he  entered  the  Bank  of  General  Interest  in  that  city 
as  a  clerk.  In  his  eighteenth  year,  he  went  to  Boston,  where  he  has  ever  smCH 
been  occupied  mainly  with  commercial  pursuits.  Although,  from  the  age  of 
fourteen,  Mr.  Whipple  has  been  a  writer  for  tlie  press,  occasionally  writing  re- 
markably well,  he  was  only  known  as  a  writer  to  his  few  associates  and  confi- 
dants until  1843,  when  he  published  in  the  Boston  Miscellany  a  paper  on 
Macaulay,  rivaling  in  analysis,  and  reflection,  and  richness  of  diction,  the  best 
productions  of  that  brilliant  essayist.  He  has  since  published,  in  the  North 
American  Review,  articles  on  the  Puritans,  American  Poets,  Daniel  Webster 
as  an  Author,  Old  English  Dramatists,  British  Critics,  South's  Sermons,  Byron, 
Wordsworth,  Talfourd,  Sidney  Smith,  and  other  subjects ;  in  the  American 
Review,  on  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  English  Poets  of  the  Nineteenth  Century, 
&c. ;  and  in  other  periodicals,  essays  and  reviewals  enough  to  form  several  vol- 
umes. As  a  critic,  he  writes  with  keen  discrimination,  cheerful  confidence,  and 
unhesitating  freedom ;  illustrating  truth  with  almost  unerring  precision,  and 
producing  a  fair  and  distinct  impression  of  an  author.  His  style  is  sensuous, 
flowing,  and  idiomatic,  abounding  in  unforced  antitheses,  apt  illustrations,  and 
natural  grace. 


62.  Extract  from  the  Essay  on  Criticism. 

1.  TTrHOEVER  thinks  a  faultless  piece  to  see 

VV    Thinks  what  ne'er  was,  nor  is,  nor  e'er  shall  be. 
In  every  work  regard  the  writer's  end. 
Since  none  can  compass  more  than  they  intend ; 
And,  if  the  means  be  just,  the  conduct  true, 
Applause,  in  spite  of  trivial  faults,  is  due. 
As  men  of  breeding,  sometimes  men  of  wit. 
To  avoid  great  errors  must  the  less  commit ; 
Neglect  the  rules  each  verbal  critic  lays ; 
For  not  to  know  some  trifles,  is  a  praise. 
Most  critics,  fond  of  some  subservient  art. 
Still  make  the  whole  depend  upon  a  part : 
They  talk  of  principles,  but  notions  prize, 
And  all  to  one  loved  folly  sacrifice. 

2.  Some  to  conceit  alone  their  taste  confine. 

And  glittering  thcTaghts  struck  oit  at  every  line; 


EXTRACT    FROM    THK    ESSAY    UN    CRITICISM.  ^25 

Pleased  wifh  a  work  where  nothing's  just  or  fit ; 

One  glaring  chaos  and  wild  heap  of  wit. 

Poets,  like  painters,  thus  unskill'd  to  trace 

The  naked  nature,  and  the  living  grace, 

With  gold  and  jewels  cover  every  part, 

And  hide  with  ornaments  their  want  of  art. 

True  wit  is  Nature  to  advantage  dress'd, 

What  oft  was  thought,  but  ne'er  so  well  expressed ;  ^ 

Something,  whose  truth  convinced  at  sight  we  find, 

That  gives  us  back  the  image  of  our  mind. 

As  shades  more  sweetly  recommend  the  light, 

So  modest  plainness  sets  off  sprightly  wit ; 

For  works  may  have  more  wit  than  does  them  good, 

As  bodies  perish  through  excess  of  blood. 

Others  for  language  all  their  care  express, 

And  value  books,  as  women  men — for  dress : 

Their  praise  is  still — the  style  is  excellent : 

The  sense,  they  humbly  take  upon  content. 

Words  are  like  leaves ;  and  where  they  most  abound, 

Much  fruit  of  sense  beneath  is  rarely  found. 

False  eloquence,  like  the  prismatic  glass, 

Its  gaudy  colors  spreads  on  every  place ; 

The  face  of  Nature  we  no  more  survey, 

All  glares  alike,  without  distinction  gay : 

But  true  expression,  like  the  unchanging  sun, 

Clears  and  improves  whate'er  it  shines  upon ; 

It  gilds  all  objects,  but  it  alters  none. 

Expression  is  the  dress  of  thought,  and  still 

Appears  more  decent,  as  more  suitable : 

A  vile  conceit  in  pompous  words  express'd. 

Is  like  a  clown  in  regal  purple  dress'd ; 

For  difi"erent  styles  with  different  subjects  sort, 

As  several  garbs,  with  country,  town,  and  court. 

In  words,  as  fashions,  the  same  rule  will  hold ; 

Alike  fantastic,  if  too  new  or  old  : 

Be  not  the  first  by  whom  the  new  are  tried, 

Nor  yet  the  last  to  lay  the  old  aside. 


s  NATIONAL   FIFTH    KEADEK. 

5.  But  most  by  numbers  judge  a  poet's  s6ng ; 

And  smooth  or  rough,  wi&  them,  is  right  or  wrSng. 

In  the  bright  Muse  though  thousand  charms  conspire, 

Her  voice  is  all  these  tuneful  fools  admire ; 

Who  haunt  Parnassus*  but  to  please  their  ear, 

Not  mend  their  minds ;  as  some  to  church  repair, 

Not  for  the  doctrine,  but  the  music  there. 

These,  equal  syllables  alone  require, 

Though  oft  the  ear  the  open  vowels  tire ; 

While  expletives  their  feeble  aid  do  join. 

And  ten  low  words  oft  creep  in  one  dull  line : 

While  they  ring  round  the  same  unvaried  chimef;, 

With  sure  returns  of  still-expected  rhymes ; 

Where'er  you  find  the  "  cooling  western  breeze," 

In  the  next  line  it  "  whispers  through  th*^.  trees :" 

If  crystal  streams  "  with  pleasing  murmurs  creep," 

The  reader's  threaten'd  (not  in  vain)  with  "  sleep  .*" 

Then  at  the  last  and  only  couplet,  fraught 

With  some  unmeaning  thing  they  call  a  thought, 

A  needless  Alexandrine^  ends  the  song, 

That,  like  a  wounded  snake,  drags  its  slow  length  along 

6.  Leave  such  to  tune  their  own  dull  rhymes,  and  know 
What's  roundly  smooth  or  languishingly  slow ; 

And  praise  the  easy  vigor  of  a  line. 

Where  Denham's'  strength  and  Waller's''  sweetness  join. 

True  ease  in  writing  comes  from  art,  not  chance, 

As  those  move  easiest  who  have  learn'd  to  dance. 

'Tis  not  enough  no  harshness  gives  offence ; 

The  sound  must  seem  an  echo  to  the  sense : 

Soft  is  the  strain  when  Zephyr  gently  blows. 

And  the  smooth  stream  in  smoother  numbers  flows ; 

But  when  loud  surges  lash  the  sounding  shore. 

The  hoarse,  rough  verse  should  like  the  torrent  roar. 


*  P4r  n&s'  BUS,  a  celebrated  mountain  in  Greece,  considered  in  mythol 
ogy  as  sacred  to  Apollo  and  the  Muses. — '  Al  ex  in'drlne,  a  verse  or  line 
of  twelve  syllables. — 'Sir  J.  Deniiam,  an  English  writer  of  verse,  born 
in  1615,  and  died  in  1668. — *  Edmund  Waller,  one  of  the  most  £amout 
of  English  poets,  boru  iu  1005,  aud  died  in  1687. 


EXTKACT    FiiOM    THE    ESSAY    OF    CRITICISM.  227 

7.  When  Ajax'  strives  some  rock's  vast  weight  to  throw, 
The  line  too  labors,  and  the  words  move  slow : 

/    Not  so  when  swift  Camilla^  scours  the  plain. 

Flies  o'er  the  unbending  corn,  and  skims  along  the  main: 
Hear  how  Timotheus'^  varied  lays  surprise, 
And  bid  altern'ate  passions  fall  and  rise ! 
While,  at  each  change,  the  son  of  Libyan  Jove" 
Now  burns  wifli  glory,  and  then  melts  with  love; 
Now  his  fierce  eyes  with  sparkling  fury  glow ; 
Now  sighs  steal  out,  and  tears  begin  to  flow : 
Persians  and  Greeks  like  turns  of  nature  found. 
And  the  world's  victor  stood  subdued  by  sound. 

Alexander  Pope, 

Aleaander  Pope,  the  poet,  to  whom  English  ix>etry  and  the  English  '.angua^e 
are  greatly  indebted,  was  bom  May  22d,  1688,  in  London.  He  was  a  very  sickly 
child  ;  and  his  bodily  infirmities  remained  through  life.  lie  never  grew  to  b« 
taller  than  about  four  feet ;  and  his  deformity  and  weakness  of  limbs  were  so 
great,  that,  for  several  years  before  his  death,  he  could  not  dress  or  undress  him- 
self. Yet,  after  his  twelfth  year,  he  attended  no  school,  but  educated  himself. 
Tlie  whole  of  his  early  life  was  that  of  a  severe  student.  He  was  a  poet  in 
infancy.  The  "  Ode  to  Solitude"  dates  from  his  twelfth  year.  At  the  age  of 
sixteen  he  wrote  his  Pastorals,  and  his  imitation  of  Chaucer.  He  soon  became 
acquainted  with  most  of  the  eminent  persons  of  the  day,  both  in  politics  and 
literature.  His  "  Essay  on  Criticism,"  which  was  composed  when  he  was 
only  twenty-one,  is  regarded  by  many  as  the  finest  piece  of  argumentative  poetry 
in  the  English  language.  His  celebrity  was  eflfectually  and  deservedly  secured 
in  1712,  by  his  first  edition  of  the  "  Rape  of  the  Lock."  He  soon  after  published 
"The  Messiah,"  "The  Temple  of  Fame,"  "Ode  on  St.  Cecilia's  Day,"  and 
"  Windsor  Forest."  His  Translation  of  the  Iliad,  published  by  subscription, 
from  1715  to  1720,  produced  to  the  author  more  than  £5,000.  His  edition  of 
Shakspeare,  and  his  Odyssey,  appeared  in  1725.  The  "  F.ssay  on  Man,"  and 
several  other  valuable  poems,  appeared  in  1738.  He  died  in  May,  1744.  For  a 
description  of  Pope's  fine  poetic  endowments,  see  the  next  exercise. 

■  Ajax,  one  of  the  Grecian  princes  in  the  Trojan  war,  and,  next  to 
Achilles,  the  bravest. — '  Camilla,  daughter  of  King  ^letabus,  of  the 
Volscian  town  of  Trivernum,  was  one  of  the  swift-footed  servants  of 
Diana,  accustomed  to  the  chase  and  to  war.  Virgil  represents  her 
as  so  swift  and  light  of  foot,  that  she  could  run  over  a  field  of  corn  with- 
out bending  the  stalks,  or  over  the  sea  without  wetting  her  feet. — 
*TiM0THEUS,  a  famous  musician  and  poet,  born  at  Miletus,  b.  c.  446, 
and  died  in  357,  in  the  ninetieth  year  of  his  age.  Also  the  name  of  a 
distinguished  flute-player,  the  favwite  of  Alexander  the  Great. — *Son 
or  Libyan  Jovb,  a  name  which  A.lexander  the  Great  arrogated. 


*22S  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READEK. 


63.  Parallel  between  Pope  and  Djjyden. 

POPE  professed  to  have  learned  liis  poetry  from  Dryden,* 
whom,  whenever  an  opportunity  was  presented,  he  praised 
through  his. whole  life  with  unvaried  liberality;  and  perhaps  bia 
character  may  receive  some  illustration,  if  he  be  compared  with 
his  master. 

2.  Integrity  of  understanding,  and  nicety  of  discernment,  were 
not  allotted  in  a  less  proportion  to  Dryden  than  to  Pope.  The 
rectitude  of  Dry  den's  mind  was  sufficiently  shown  by  the  dis- 
mission of  his  poetical  prejudices,  and  the  rejection  of  unnatural 
thoughts  and  rugged  numbers.  But  Dryden  never  desired  to 
apply  all  the  judgment  that  he  had.  He  wrote,  and  professed 
to  write,  merely  for  the  people ;  and  when  he  pleased  others,  he 
contented  himself. 

3.  He  spent  no  time  in  struggles  to  rouse  latent  powers ;  he 
never  attempted  to  make  that  better  which  was  already  good, 
nor  6ften  to  mend  what  he  must  have  known  to  be  faulty.  He 
wrote,  as  he  tells  us,  with  vety  little  consideration :  when  occa- 
sion or  necessity  called  upon  him,  he  poured  out  what  the  pres- 
ent moment  happened  to  supply,  and,  when  once  it  had  passed 
the  press,  ejected  it  from  his  mind ;  for,  when  he  had  no  pecu- 
niary interest  he  had  no  further  solicitude. 

4.  Pope  was  not  content  to  satisfy ;  he  desired  to  excel,  and 
therefore  always  endeavored  to  do  his  best ;  he  did  not  court 
the  candor,  but  dared  the  judgment  of  his  reader,  and,  expecting 
no  indulgence  from  others,  he  showed  none  to  himself.  He  ex 
amined  lines  and  words  wifli  minute  and  punctilious  observation, 
and  retouched  every  part  with  indefat'igable  diligence,  till  he 
had  left  nothing  to  be  forgiven. 

5.  For  this  reason  he  kept  his  pieces  vgry  long  in  his  hands, 
while  he  considered  and  reconsidered  them.  The  only  poems 
which  can  be  supposed  to  have  been  written  ^vifll  such  regard 
to  the  times  as  might  hasten  their  publication,  were  the  two 
satires  of  Thirty-eiyht :  of  which  Dodsley'  told  me,  that  they 

^  John  Dryden  was  born  in  1631,  and  died  in  1700. — •  Robert  Dods- 
LKY,  an  able  uiiscollaLeous  writer  and  well-known  London  bookseller 
was  born  at  Mansfield,  170 j,  and  died  1764. 


PAEAIiLEIi   BETWEEN    POPE   AND   DEYDEN.  229 

were  bi ought  to  Lim  by  the  author,  that  they  might  be  fairly 
copied.  "  Every  line,"  said  he,  "  was  then  written  twice  over : 
1  gave  him  a  clean  transcript,  which  he  sent  some  time  after- 
ward to  me  for  the  press,  with  every  line  written  twice  over  a 
second  time." 

C.  His  declaration,  that  his  care  for  his  works  ceased  at  their 
txiblication,  was  not  strictly  true.  His  parental  attention  never 
auaiuloned  them :  what  he  found  amiss  in  the  first  edition,  he 
silently  corrected  in  those  that  followed.  He  appears  to  have 
revised  the  Iliad^  and  freed  ii  from  some  of  its  imperfections ; 
and  the  Essay  on  Criticism  received  many  improvements  after 
its  first  appearance.  It  will  seldom  be  found  that  he  altered 
without  adding  clearness,  elegance,  or  vigor.  Pope  had  perhaps 
the  judgment  of  Dryden  ;  but  Dryden  certainly  wanted  the  dili- 
gence of  Pope. 

7.  In  acquired  knowledge,  the  superiority  must  be  allowed  to 
Dryden,  whose  education  Avas  more  scholastic,  and  who,  before 
he  became  an  author,  had  been  allowed  more  time  for  study, 
wifh  better  means  of  information.  His  mind  has  a  larger  range, 
and  he  collects  his  images  and  illustra'tions  from  a  more  exten 
sive  circumference  of  science.  Dryden  knew  more  of  man  m 
his  general  nature,  and  Pope  in  his  local  manners.  The  notions 
of  Dryden  were  formed  by  comprehensive  speculation,  and  those 
of  Pope  by  minute  attention.  There  is  more  dignity  in  the 
knowledge  of  Dryden,  and  more  certainty  in  that  of  Pope. 

8.  Poetry  was  not  the  sole  praise  of  either ;  for  both  excelled 
likewise  in  prose  ;  but  Pope-  did  not  borrow  his  prose  from  his 
predecessor.  The  style  of  Dryden  is  capricious  and  varied ;  that 
of  Pope  is  cautious  and  uniform.  Dryden  obeys  the  motions  ol 
his  own  mind ;  Pope  constrains  his  mind  to  his  own  rules  ol 
composition.  Dryden  is  sometimes  ve'hement  and  rapid ;  Pope 
IS  always  smooth,  uniform,  and  gentle.  Dryden's  page  is  a  nat- 
lual  field,  rising  into  inequalities,  and  diversified  by  the  varied 
exuberance  of  abundant  vegetation ;  Pope's  is  a  velvet  lawn, 
shaven  by  the  scythe,  and  leveled  by  the  roller. 

9.  Of  genius, — that  power  which  constitutes  a  poet — that  qual- 
ity without  which  judgment  is  cokl,  and  knowledge  is  inert — 
that  energy  which  collects,  combines,  amplifies,  and  animates,— 
the  Fuperiority  must,  wifli  soirie  hesitation,  be  allowed  to  Dry 


230  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

den.  It  is  not  to  be  inferred,  that  of  this  poetical  vigor  Pope 
had  only  a  little,  because  Dryden  had  more ;  for  every  other 
writer  since  Milton'  must  give  place  to  Pope ;  and  even  of  Dry- 
den it  must  be  said,  that  if  he  has  brighter  paragraphs,  he  has 
not  better  poems. 

10.  Dryden's  performances  were  always  hasty,  either  excite<l 
by  some  external  occasion  or  extorted  by  domestic  necessity; 
he  composed  without  consideration,  and  published  without  cor- 
rection. What  his  mind  could  supply  at  call,  or  gather  in  on< 
excursion,  was  all  that  he  sought,  and  all  that  he  gave.  The 
dilatory  caution  of  Pope  enabled  him  to  condense  his  sentiments, 
\o  multiply  his  images,  and  to  accumulate  all  that  study  might 
produce,  or  chance  might  supply.  If  the  flights  of  Dryden, 
therefore,  are  higher.  Pope  continues  longer  on  the  wing.  If  of 
Dry  den's  fire  the  blaze  is  brighter,  of  Pope's  the  heat  is  more 
regular  and  constant.  Dryden  often  surp  jsses  expectation,  and 
Pope  never  falls  below  it.  Dryden  is  read  wifli  frequent  aston- 
ishment, and  Pope  with  perpetual  delight. 

11.  This  parallel  will,  I  hope,  when  it  is  well  considered,  be 
found  just ;  and  if  the  reader  should  suspect  me,  as  I  suspect 
myself,  of  some  partial  fondness  for  the  memory  of  Diyden,  let 
him  not  too  hastily  condemn  me ;  for  meditation  and  inqui'ry 
may,  perhaps,  show  him  the  reasonableness  of  my  determination. 

Samuel  Johnson. 

Dr.  Samuel  Johnson,  one  of  the  greatest,  if  not  the  greatest,  of  the  literary  men  of 
tlie  eighteenth  century,  was  bom  at  Litchfield,  England,  on  the  18th  of  Septem- 
ber, 1709.  In  the  child,  the  peculiarities  which  afterward  distinguished  the  man 
were  plainly  discernible ; — great  muscular  strength,  accompanied  by  much  awk- 
wardness, and  many  infirmities ;  great  quickness  of  parts,  with  a  morbid  pro- 
pensity to  sloth  and  procrastination ;  a  kind  and  generous  heart,  with  a  gloomy 
and  irritable  temper.  Indolent  as  he  was,  he  acquired  knowledge  with  such 
ease  and  rapidity,  that  at  every  school  to  which  he  was  sent  he  was  soon  the 
best  scholar.  From  sixteen  to  eighteen  he  resided  at  home,  and  learne<l  much, 
though  his  studies  were  without  guidance  and  without  plan.  When  the  young 
bcholar  presented  himself  at  Pembroke  College,  Oxford,  he  amazed  the  rulers  of 
that  society  not  more  by  his  ungainly  figure  and  eccentric  manners  than  by  tiie 
quantity  of  his  extensive  and  curious  information.  While  here,  he  early  made 
himself  known  by  turning  Pope's  Messiah  into  Latin  verse.  He  was  poor,  how- 
ever, even  to  raggedness  ;  and  his  appearance  excited  a  mirth  and  a  pity  which 
were  equally  intolerable  to  his  haughty  spirit  After  residing  at  Oxford  about 
three  years,  Johnson's  resources  failed  ;  and  he  was  under  tlie  necessity  of  quit- 


Milton,  see  uoto  4,  p.  216. 


THE    PUKITANS.  ti3J 

ting  the  university  without  a  degree,  in  the  autumn  of  1731.  In  the  following 
winter  his  father  died.  The  old  man  left  but  a  pittance;  and  of  that  pittance, 
Samuel  received  not  more  than  twenty  pounds.  With  many  infirmities  of  body 
and  mind,  this  celebrated  man  was  thus  left,  at  two-and-twenty,  to  fiirht  liis  way 
through  the  world.  He  became  usher  of  a  grammar-school  in  Leicesterahire ; 
he  soon  after  married,  took  a  house  in  the  neighborhood  of  his  native  town,  and 
advertised  for  pupils.  But  eighteen  months  passed  away,  and  only  three  pupils 
came  to  his  academy,  one  of  whom  was  the  celebrated  David  Garrick.  At 
length,  in  the  twenty-eighth  year  of  his  age,  he  went  to  London  to  seek  his  fc^- 
tmie  £is  a  hterary  adventurer.  Some  time  elapsed  before  he  was  able  to  foni/ 
any  literary  connection  from  which  he  coujd  expect  more  than  bread  for  the  daj 
that  was  passing  over  him.  The  effect  of  the  privations  and  sufferings  which  he 
endured  at  this  time  was  discernible  to  tlie  latii  in  his  temper  and  deportment. 
His  manners  haxl  never  been  courtly.  They  now  became  almost  savage.  About 
a  year  after  Johnson  had  begun  to  reside  in  London,  lie  fortunately  obtained 
regulajr  employment  eis  a  reporter,  or  rather  writer  of  parhamentary  speeches  for 
the  "  Gentleman's  Magazine."  A  few  weeks  after  he  had  entered  on  these  ob- 
scure labors,  he  published  a  stately  and  vigorous  poem,  entitled  "  London," 
which  at  once  placed  him  high  among  the  writers  of  his  age.  From  this  j)eriod 
till  176'i  he  was  subjected  to  anxiety  and  drudgery ;  and  was  only  able  to  gain  a 
bare  subsistence  by  the  most  intense  daily  toil.  This  was,  however,  in  part  ow- 
ing to  his  having  been  singularly  miskillful  and  unlucky  in  his  literary  bargains, 
as  in  the  mean  time  he  had  published  the  "  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes,"  in  1749 ; 
a  "Dictionary  of  the  English  Language,"  in  1755;  and  "  ilasseleis,"  in  1759. 
He  also  published  a  jiaper,  entitled  the  "  Rambler,"  every  Tuesday  and  Satur- 
day, from  March,  1750,  to  March,  175i:;  and  a  series  of  weekly  essays,  entitled 
"  The  Idler,"  for  two  years,  commencing  in  the  spring  of  1758.  Able  judges 
have  pronounced  these  periodicals  equal,  if  not  superior  to  the  "  Spectator."  In 
1762,  through  the  influence  of  Lord  Bute,  he  received  a  pension  of  £300  a  year ; 
and  from  that  period  a  great  change  in  his  circumstances  took  place.  The  Uni- 
versity of  Oxford  honored  him  with  a  doctor's  degree,  and  the  Royal  Academy 
with  a  professorship.  He  was  now  free  to  indulge  his  constitutional  idleness ; 
still,  though  he  wrote  but  little,  his  tongue  was  active.  The  influence  exercised 
by  his  conversation,  directly  upon  the  members  of  the  celebrated  club  over 
which  he  predominated,  and  indirectly  upon  the  whole  literary  world,  was  alto- 
gether without  a  parallel.  His  colloquial  powers  were  of  the  higiiest  order.  He 
had  strong  sense,  quick  discernment,  humor,  wit,  immense  knowledge  of  litera- 
ture and  of  life,  and  an  infinite  store  of  curious  anecdotes.  Every  sentence  that 
fell  from  his  lips  was  con-ect  in  structure.  Ail  was  simplicity,  ease,  and  vigor. 
Of  all  his  numerous  writings,  those  that  are  now  most  popular  are  the  "  Vanity 
of  Human  Wishes"  and  the  "  Lives  of  the  Poets."  In  a  serena  frame  of  mind, 
ne  died  on  the  13th  of  December,  1784 ;  mid  a  week  later  was  laid  in  Westmin- 
ster Abbey. 


64:.  The  Pukitans. 

THE  Puritans^  were  men  who^e  minds  had  derived  a  peculiar 
character  from  the  daily  contemplation  of  superior  beings 

'Pi'ritans,  persons,  in  the  time  of  Queen  lOliziilu'th  and  hei  immedi- 
ftto  suocuiworj,  so  «j;ill  xl  in  derision.  lic<aii<«'  i[:v.y  \u>  U<:>iit't]  to  t'oll.i'A-  thf 


232  NATIONAL    FlKTii    RKADKli. 

and  eternal  interests.  Not  content  wifli  acknowledging,  in  geiv 
eral  terms,  an  overruling  Providence,  they  habitually  ascribed 
every  event  to  the  will  of  the  Great  Being,  for  whose  powei 
nothing  was  too  vast,  for  whose  inspection  nothing  was  too  mi 
nute.  To  know  him,  to  serve  him,  to  enjoy  him,  was  with  their 
the  great  end  of  existenct,. 

2.  They  rejected  wifli  contempt  the  ceremonious  homage 
which  other  sects  substituted  for  the  pure  worship  of  the  soul. 
Instead  of  catching  occasional  glimpses  of  the  Deity  through  an 
obscuring  vail,  they  aspired  to  gaze  full  on  the  intolerable  bright 
ness,  and  to  commune  with  him  face  to  face.  Hence  originated 
their  contempt  for  terrestrial  distinctions.  The  difference  be- 
tween the  greatest  and  meanest  of  mankind  seemed  to  vanish, 
when  compared  with  the  boundless  interval  which  separated  the 
whole  race  from  Him  on  whom  their  own  eyes  were  constantly 
fixed.  They  recognized  no  title  to  superiority  but  his  favor ; 
and,  confident  of  that  favor,  they  despised  all  the  accomplish- 
ments and  all  the  dignities  of  the  world. 

3.  If  they  were  unacquainted  wifh  the  works  of  philosophers 
and  poets,  they  were  deeply  read  in  the  oracles  of  G6d ;  if  their 
names  were  not  found  in  the  registers  of  heralds,  they  felt  as- 
sured that  they  were  recorded  in  the  Book  of  Life ;  if  their  stejis 
were  not  accompanied  by  a  splendid  train  of  menials,  legions  of 
ministering  angels  had  charge  over  them.  Their  palaces  were 
houses  not  mada  with  hands :  their  diadems,  crowns  of  glory 
which  should  never  fade  away  ! 

4.  On  the  rich  and  the  eloquent,  on  nobles  and  priests,  they 
looked  down  with  contempt ;  for  they  esteemed  themselves  rich 
in  a  more  precious  treasure,  and  eloquent  in  a  more  sublime  lan- 
guage— nobles  by  the  right  of  an  earlier  creation,  and  priests  by 
the  imposition  of  a  mightier  hand.  The  v6ry  meanest  of  them 
was  a  being  to  whose  fate  a  mysterious  and  terrible  importance 
belonged — on  whose  slightest  actions  the  spirits  of  light  and 
darkness  looked  with  anxious  interest — who  had  been  destined, 
before  heaven  and  earth  were  creiited,  to  enjoy  a  felicity  which 
should  continue  when  heaven  and  earth  should  have  passed  away. 


jjMreword  of  God,  and  rejected  the  oremouies  and  goveriuueut  of  the 
Kpiscopal  church. 


ADVANTAGES    OF    ADVERSITY.  233 

5.  Events  whi^h  short-sighted  politicians  ascribed  to  earthly 
causes,  had  been  ordained  on  his  account.  For  his  sake,  em- 
oires  had  risen,  and  flourished,  and  decayed;  for  his  sake,  the 
Almighty  had  proclaimed  his  will  by  the  pen  of  the  evangelist 
and  the  harp  of  the  prophet.  He  had  been  rescued  by  no  com- 
mon deliverer  from  the  grasp  of  no  common  foe ;  he  had  been 
ransomed  by  the  sweat  of  no  vulgar  agony,  by  the  blood  of  no 
earthly  sacrifice.  It  was  for  him  that  the  sun  had  been  dark- 
ened, that  the  rocks  had  been  rent,  tbat  the  dead  had  arisen, 
that  all  nature  had  shuddered  at  the  sufferings  of  her  expiring 
God! 


65.  The  Rock  of  the  Pilgrims. 

1.  A  ROCK  in  the  wilderness  welcomed  our  sires, 
-^  From  bondage  far  over  the  dark-rolling  sea : 
On  that  holy  altar  they  kindled  the  fires, 

Jehovah,  which  glow  in  our  bosoms  for  thee. 

2.  Thy  blessings  descended  in  sunshine  and  shower, 

Or  rose  jfrom  the  soil  that  was  sown  by  thy  hand  ; 
The  mountain  and  valley  rejoiced  in  thy  power. 
And  heaven  encircled  and  smiled  on  the  land. 

3.  The  Pilgrims  of  old  an  example  have  given 

Of  mild  resignation,  devotion,  and  love, 
Which  beams  like  a  star  in  the  blue  vault  of  heaven ; 
A  beacon-light  hung  in  their  mansion  above. 

4.  In  church  and  cathedral  we  kneel  in  our  prayer — 

Their  temple  and  chapel  were  valley  and  hill ; 
But  G6d  is  the  same  in  the  aisle  or  the  air. 
And  he  is  the  Rock  that  we  lean  upon  still. 

George  P.  Morris." 


ri6.   Advaih^ages  of  Adversity  to  our  Forefathers. 

ROM  the  dark  portals  of  the  star-chamber,  and  in  the  stern 
text  of  the  acts  of  uniformity,  the  Pilgrims  received  a  com- 

See  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  155. — 'See  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  98 


F 


234  NATIONAJ.    FltTH    IiEAI)l':K. 


sion,  more  efficient  than  any  tliat  ever  bore  the  royal  seal. 
Their  banishment  to  Holland  was  fortunate ;  the  decline  of  their 
little  company  in  the  strange  land  was  fortunate ;  the  difficulties 
which  they  experienced  in  getting  the  royal  consent  to  banish 
themselves  to  this  wilderness  were  fortunate ;  all  the  tears  and 
heart-breakings  of  that  ever  memorable  parting  at  Delfthaven' 
had  the  happiest  influence  on  the  rising  destinies  of  New  En 
gland. 

2.  All  this  purified  the  ranks  of  the  settlers.  These  rough 
touches  of  fortune  brushed  off  the  light,  uncertain,  selfish  spiiits. 
They  made  it  a  grave,  solemn,  self-denying  expedition,  and  re- 
quired of  those  who  engaged  in  it  to  be  so  too.  They  cast  a 
broad  shadow  of  thought  and  seriousness  over  the  cause ;  and,  if 
this  sometimes  deepened  into  melancholy  and  bitterness,  can  we 
find  no  apology  for  such  a  human  weakness  ? 

3.  It  is  sad,  indeed,  to  reflect  on  the  disasters  which  the  little 
band  of  Pilgrims  encountered ;  sad  to  see  a  portion  of  them,  the 
prey  of  unrelenting  cupidity,  treacherously  embarked  in  an  un- 
sound, unseaworthy  ship,  which  they  are  soon  obliged  to  aban- 
don, and  crowd  themselves  into  one  vessel ;  one  hundred  per- 
sons, besides  the  ship's  company,  in  a  vessel  of  one  hundred  and 
sixty  tons.  One  is  touched  at  the  story  of  the  long,  cold,  and 
weary  autumnal  passage ;  of  the  landing  on  the  inhospitable 
rocks  at  this  dismal  season ;  where  they  are  deserted,  before 
long,  by  the  ship  which  had  brought  them,  and  which  seemed 
their  only  hold  upon  the  world  of  fellow-men,  a  prey  to  the  ele- 
ments and  to  want,  and  fearfully  ignorant  of  the  numbers,  the 
power,  and  the  temper  of  the  savage  tribes,  that  filled  the  unex- 
plored continent,  upon  whose  verge  they  had  ventured. 

4.  But  all  this  wrought  together  for  good.  These  trials  of 
wandering  and  exile,  of  the  ocean,  the  winter,  the  wilderness, 
and  the  savage  foe,  were  the  final  assurances  of  success.  It  was 
these  that  put  far  away  from  our  fathers'  cause  all  patrician 
softness,  all  hereditary  claims  to  preeminence.  No  effeminate 
nobility  crowded  into  the  dark  and  austere  ranks  of  the  Pilgrims. 

'  DSlft  hi'  ven,  a  fortified  town  in  South  Holland  (now  Belgium),  be- 
tween Rotterdam  and  Schiedam.  At  this  place  the  Pilgrims  of  Nen 
England  took  their  layt  farewell  of  their  European  friends. 


ADVANTAGES    OF    ADVERSITY.  235 

No  Carr  nor  Villiers'  would  lead  on  the  ill-provided  band  of 
despised  Puritans.  No  well-endowed  clergy  were  on  the  alert 
to  quit  their  cathedrals,  and  set  up  a  pompous  hierarchy  in  the 
frozen  wilderness.  No  craving  governors  were  anxious  to  be 
sent  over  to  ,our  cheerless  El  Dorados^  of  ice  and  snow. 

5.  No ;  they  could  not  say  they  had  encouraged,  patronized, 
or  helped  the  Pilgrims :  their  own  cares,  their  own  labors,  their 
own  councils,  their  own  blood,  contrived  all,  achieved  all,  bore 
all,  sealed  all.  They  could  not  afterward  fairly  pretend  to  reap 
where  they  had  not  strewn;  and,  as  our  fathers  reared  this 
broad  and  solid  fabric  with  pains  and  watchfulness,  unaided, 
barely  tolerated,  it  did  not  fall  when  the  favor,  which  had  always 
been  withholden,  was  changed  into  wrath ;  when  the  arm,  which 
had  never  supported,  was  raised  to  destroy. 

6.  Methinks  I  see  it  nowj  that  one  solitary,  adventurous  ves- 
sel, the  Maytiowei-^  of  a  forlorn  hope,  fi-eighted  wi6i  the  prospects 
of  a  future  State,  and  bound  across  the  unknown  sea.  I  behold 
it  pursuing,  with  a  thousand  misgivings,  the  uncertain,  the  tedious 
voyage.  Suns  rise  and  set,  and  weeks  and  months  pass,  and 
winter  surprises  them  on  the  deep,  but  brings  them  not  the 
sight  of  the  wished-for  sh5re. 

1.  I  see  them  now  scantily  supplied  with  provisions ;  crowded 
almost  to  suffocation  in  their  ill-stored  prison ;  delayed  by  calmis, 
pursuing  a  circuitous  route, — and  now  driven  in  fury  before  the 
raging  tempest,  on  the  high  and  giddy  waves.  The  awfiil  voice 
of  the  storm  howls  through  the  rigging.  The  laboring  masts 
seem  straining  from  their  base ;  the  dismal  sound  of  the  pumps 
is  heard ;  the  ship  leaps,  as  it  were,  madly,  ft-om  billow  to  bil- 
low ;  the  ocean  breaks,  and  settles  with  ingulfing  floods  over  the 
floating  deck,  and  beats,  with  deadening,  shivering  weight, 
against  the  staggered  vessel. 

8.  I  see  them,  escaped  from  these  perils,  pursuing  their  all  but 
desperate  undertaking,  and  landed  at  last,  after  a  five  months* 

*  Carr  and  Villiers,  the  unworthy  favorites  of  James  I.,  the  English 
monarch.  Villiers  is  better  known  in  history  as  the  Duke  of  Bucking- 
ham, and  Carr,  as  the  Earl  of  Somerset. — '  El  Do  r^'  do,  a  fabulous  re- 
gion in  the  interior  of  South  America,  supposed  to  be  immensely  rich  in 
gold,  gems,  &c. — '  Mayflower,  the  name  of  the  vessel  in  which  the  set- 
tlers of  Plymouth,  in  Massachusetts,  came  to  America,  in  1620. 


286  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

passage,  on  the  ice-clad  rocks  of  Plymonth, — weak  and  weary 
from  the  voyage,  poorly  armed,  scantily  provisioned,  depending 
on  the  charity  of  their  shipmaster  for  a  draught  of  beer  od 
board,  drinking  nothing  but  water  on  shore, — without  shelter, 
witliout  means, — surrounded  by  hostile  tribes. 

9.  Shut  now  the  volume  of  history,  and  tell  me,  on  any  prin- 
ciple of  human  probability,  what  shall  be  the  fate  of  this  handful 
of  adventurers.  Tell  me,  man  of  military  science,  in  how  many 
months  were  they  all  swept  oflf  by  the  thirty  savage  tribes,  enu- 
merated within  the  early  limits  of  New  England?  Tell  me, 
politician,  how  long  did  this  shadow  of  a  colony,  on  which  youi 
conventions  and  treaties  had  not  smiled,  languish  on  the  distant 
coast?  Student  of  history,  compare  for  me  the  baffled  projects, 
the  deserted  settlements,  the  abandoned  adventures  of  other 
times,  and  find  the  parallel  of  this. 

10.  Was  it  the  winter's  storm,  beating  upon  the  houseless 
heads  of  women  and  children ;  was  it  hard  labor  and  spare 
meals ;  was  it  disease ;  was  it  the  tomahawk ;  was  it  the  deep 
malady  of  a  blighted  hope,  a  ruined  enterprise,  and  a  broken 
heart,  aching  in  its  last  moments  at  the  recollection  of  the  loved 
and  left  beyond  the  sea ; — was  it  some,  or  all  of  these  united, 
that  hurried  tliis  forsaken  company  to  their  melancholy  fate  ? 
And  is  it  possible  that  neither  of  these  causes,  that  not  all  com- 
bined, were  able  to  blast  this  bud  of  hope  ?  Is  it  possible,  that, 
from  a  beginning  so  feeble,  so  frail,  so  worthy,  not  so  much  of 
admiration  as  of  pity,  there  has  gone  forth  a  progress  so  steady, 
a  growth  so  wonderful,  an  expansion  so  ample,  a  reality  so  im- 
portant, a  promise,  yet  to  be  fulfilled,  so  glorious  ? 

Edward  Evbbett  ' 


67.  The  Graves  of  the  Patriots. 

1.  TTERE  rest  the  great  and  good.    Here  they  repose 
-tl  After  their  generous  toil.     A  sacred  band, 
They  take  their  sleep  together,  while  the  year 
Comes  wifh  its  early  flowers  to  deck  their  graves, 
And  gathers  them  again,  as  Winter  frowns. 

'  See  Biographical  Sketch,  p  89. 


THE    GKAVES    OF   THE   PATRIOTS.  237 

Theirs  is  no  vulgar  sepulchre — green  sods 
Are  ail  their  monument,  and  yet  it  tells 
A  nobler  history  than  pillar'd  piles, 
Or  the  eternal  pyramids. 

2.  They  need 
No  statue  nor  inscription  to  reveal 

Their  greatness.     It  is  round  them ;  and  the  joy 
Wifli  which  their  children  tread  the  hallow'd  groimd 
That  holds  their  venerated  bones,  the  peace 
That  smiles  on  all  they  fought  for,  and  the  wealth 
That  clothes  the  land  they  rescued, — these,  though  mute 
As  feeling  ever  is  when  deepest — these 
Are  monuments  more  lasting  than  the  fanes 
Rear'd  to  the  kings  and  demigods  of  old. 

3.  Touch  not  the  ancient  elms,  that  bend  their  shade 
Over  their  lowly  graves;  beneath  their  boughs 
There  is  a  solemn  darkness  even  at  noon. 
Suited  to  such  as  visit  at  the  shrine 

Of  serious  Liberty.     No  factious  voice 

Call'd  them  unto  the  field  of  generous  fame, 

But  the  pure  consecrated  love  of  home. 

No  deeper  feeling  sways  us,  when  it  wakes 

In  all  its  greatness.     It  has  told  itself 

To  the  astonish'd  gaze  of  awe-struck  kings, 

At  Marathon,'  at  Bannockburn,*  and  here, 

Where  first  our  patriots  sent  the  invader  back 

Broken  and  cow'd.     Let  these  green  elms  be  all 

To  tell  us  where  they  fought,  and  where  they  lie. 

4.  Their  feelings  were  all  nature,  and  they  need 
No  art  to  make  them  known.     They  live  in  us, 


*  Mir'  a  thon,  a  hamlet,  small  river,  and  plain  of  Greece,  government 
of  Attica.  The  hamlet  is  18  miles  N.  E.  of  Athens.  The  plain,  bound 
ed  S.  by  Mount  Pentelicus,  is  renowned  for  the  victory  of  Miltiades  over 
the  army  of  Xerxes,  b.  c.  490. — "  BW  nock  burn,  a  town  of  Scotland, 
famous  for  the  great  victory  gained  here  24th  of  June,  1314,  by  the 
Scots,  under  Bruce,  over  the  English,  commanded  by  Edward  II.,  and 
his  generals 


238  NAT  ION  AI,   FIFTH    READER. 

While  we  are  like  them,  simple,  haidy,  bold, 
Worshiping  nothing  but  our  own  pure  hearts, 
And  the  one  universal  Lord.     They  need 
No  column  pointing  to  the  heaven  they  sought, 
To  tell  us  of  their  home.     The  heart  itself, 
Left  to  its  own  free  purpose,  hastens  there, 
And  there  alone  reposes. 

5.  Let  these  elms 

Bend  their  protecting  shadow  o'er  their  graves, 
And  build  wifh  their  green  roof  the  only  faae. 
Where  we  may  gather  on  the  hallow'd  day 
That  rose  to  them  in  blood,  and  set  in  glory. 
Here  let  us  meet,  and  while  our  motionless  lips 
Give  not  a  sound,  and  all  around  is  mute 
In  the  deep  Sabbath  of  a  heart  too  full 
For  words  or  tears — here  let  us  strew  the  sod 
With  the  first  flowers  of  spring,  and  make  to  them 
An  offering  of  the  plenty  Nature  gives. 
And  they  have  rendered  ours — perpetually. 

J.  G.  Percival. 

James  Gates  Percival,  the  poet,  was  bom  in  Berlin,  near  Hartford,  in  Con- 
necticut, on  the  15th  of  September,  1795.  He  entered  Yale  College  when  fifteen 
years  of  age,  and  graduated  in  1815,  with  the  reputation  of  being  the  first  scholai 
of  his  class.  From  Yale  Medical  School,  in  1820,  he  received  the  degree  of  Dr 
of  Medicine.  He  wrote  verses  at  an  early  age,  and  in  his  fourteenth  year  pro- 
duced an  able  satire.  He  composed  "  Zamor,  a  Tragedy,"  while  in  college 
He  first  appeared  before  the  public,  as  an  author,  in  1821,  when  he  published 
Bome  minor  poems,  and  the  first  part  of  his  "  Prometheus,"  which  at  once  at- 
tracted attention,  and  was  favorably  noticed  by  Edward  Everett,  in  the  N. 
A.  Review.  In  1822  he  published  two  volumes  of  miscellaneous  poems  and 
prose  writings,  entitled  "  Clio,"  and  the  second  part  of  "  Prometheus,"  the  lat- 
ter of  which  is  a  poem  containing  nearly  four  hundred  stanzas,  in  the  Spense- 
rian meeisure.  An  edition  of  his  principal  poetical  writings  soon  after  appeared 
in  New  York,  and  was  republished  in  London.  He  was  appointed  assistant 
surgeon  in  the  U.  S.  army  in  1824,  and  acted  as  Professor  of  Chemistry  in  the 
.Military  Academy  at  West  Point.  The  duties  of  his  office  infringing  too  much 
upon  his  favorite  studies,  after  a  few  months  he  resigned  his  commission.  The 
Hiird  volume  of  "Clio"  appeared  in  New  York  early  in  1827.  For  two  yean 
subsequent  he  superintended  tlie  printing  of  the  first  quarto  edition  of  Dr.  We» 
ster's  American  Dictionary,  a  situation  for  which  his  ripe  scholarship,  and 
critical  acquaintance  with  ancient  and  modern  languages,  rendered  him  emi- 
nently qualified.  In  1835  lie  was  employed  by  the  government  of  Connecticut 
lo  make  a  geological  survey  of  that  State,  an  elaborate  and  very  able  report  of 
which  was  printed  in  1842.  While  engaged  in  these  duties  he  published  poetic- 
til  translations  from  eleven  modern  languages,  and  wrote  a  portion  of  "  The 


THE    ANTIQUITY    OF    FREEDOM.  §89 

Dream  of  Day  aud  other  Poems,"  which  appeared  in  1843.  lu  1854  he  was  ai>- 
pointed  State  Geologist  of  Wisconsin.  He  died  in  1856.  Few  men  possessed 
higher  poetical  qualities  than  Percival.  His  learning  was  comprehensive  and 
thorough.  He  had  a  rich  imagination,  a  remarkable  command  of  languaj?e, 
and  wrote  with  a  facility  rarely  equaled  ;  but  he  shrunk  from  the  labor  of  Ihor- 
oughly  revising  his  writings,  and  giving  them  the  polished  excellence  that  can 
only  be  attained  by  a  slow  and  laborious  process. 


68.    The  Antiquity  of  Freedom. 

1.  TJERE  are  old  trees,  tall  oaks,  and  gnarled  pines, 

AJ-  That  stream  wi6i  gray -green  mosses ;  here  the  ground 

Was  never  touch'd  by  spade,  and  flowers  spring  up 

Unsown,  and  die  ungather'd.     It  is  sweet 

To  linger  here,  among  the  flitting  birds' 

And  leaping  squirrels,^  wandering  brooks,  and  winds 

That  shake  the  leaves,  and  scatter  as  they  pass' 

A  fragrance  from  the  cedars  thickly  set 

With  pale  blue  berries.     In  these  peaceful  shades — 

Peaceful,  unpruned,^  immeasurably  old — 

My  thoughts  go  up  the  long  dim  path^  of  years. 

Back  to  the  earliest®  days  of  Liberty. 

2.  O  Freedom  !  thou  art  not,  as  poets  dream, 

A  fair'  young  girl,^  with  light  and  delicate  limbs. 
And  wavy  tresses  gushing  from  the  cap 
With  which  the  Roman  master*  crown'd  his  slave. 
When  he  took  off  the  gyves."     A  bearded  man, 
Arm'd  to  the  teeth,  art  thou  :  one  mailed  hand 
Grasps''  the  broad  shield,  and  one  the  sw;6rd ;  thy  brow. 
Glorious  in  beauty  though  it  be,  is  scarr'd 
With  tokens  of  old  wars ;  thy  massive'^  limbs 
Are  strong  and  struggling. 

•5.  Power  at  thee  has  launch'd" 

His  bolts,  and  wifli  his  lightnings  smitten  thee ; 

'  Birds  (bSrdz). — '  Squirrel  (skwSr' rel). — '  PSss. — *  Unpruned  (un 
).i5n<r).-»  path.—'  Earliest  (^r'llest).— '  F&tr.— "  Girl  (g5rl).-'  Mds'  ter. 
--  "  r.yves,  fetters  for  the  legs.—"  Gr&sps.  —  "  Miss' Ive. — "  Launched 
'.a.,rlit) 


240  NATIONAL    FIFIH    READEK. 

They  could  not  quench  the  light  thou  hast  from  Heaven. 

Merciless'  Power  has  dug  thy  dungeon  deep, 

And  his  swart^  armorers,  by  a  thousand  fires, 

Have  forged  thy  chain  ;  y6t  while  he  deems  thee  bound, 

The  links  are  shiver'd,  and  the  prison  walls 

Fall  outward  :  terribly  thou  springest  forth, 

As  springs  the  flame  above  a  burning^  pile, 

And  shoutest  to  the  nations,  who  return 

Thy  shoutings,  while  the  pale  oppressor  flies. 

i.  Thy  birth-right^  was  not  given  by  human  hands  : 
Thou  wert  twin-born  wifli  man.     In  pleasant  fields, 
While  yet  our  race  was  few,  thou  sat'st  with  him, 
To  tend  the  quiet  flock  and  watch  the  stars, 
And  teach  the  reed  to  utter  simple  airs.* 
Thou  by  his  side,  amid  the  tangled  wood. 
Didst  war  upon  the  panther  and  the  wolf. 
His  only  foes ;  and  thou  with  him  didst  draw 
The  earliest  furrows  on  the  mountain  side. 
Soft  with  the  Dehige.     Tyranny  himself. 
The  enemy,  although  of  reverend  look, 
Hoary  with  many  years,  and  far  obey'd. 
Is  later  born  than  thou ;  and  as  he  meets 
The  grave  defiance  of  thine  elder  eye. 
The  usurper^  trembles  in  his  fastnesses. 

5.  Thou  shalt  wax  stronger  wifli  the  lapse  of  years, 
But  he  shall  fade  into  a  feebler  age ; 
Feebler,  yet  subtler' :  he  shall  weave  his  snares,® 
And  spring  them  on  thy  careless"  steps,  and  clap 
His  witherM  hands,  and  from  their  ambush  call 
His  hordes  to  fall  upon  thee.     He  shall  send 
Quaint  maskers,'"  forms  of  fair  and  gallant  mien, 
To  catch  thy  gaze,  and  uttering  graceful  words" 
To  charm  thy  ear ;  while  his  sly  imps,  by  stealth. 
Twine  round  thee  threads  of  steel,  light  thread  on  thread, 

*  MSr' ci  ISss. — '  Swirt,  dark  of  hue;  tawny;  moderately  black. — 
•  Burning  (b^rn'  ing).— *  Birtli-right  (bSrth'rlt).— 'Airs  (irz).— *  Usurper 
(yu  zirp'er). — '  Subtler  (suf  tl5r),  more  full  of  art  and  deception  ;  more' 
crafty. — '  Snaros  (sn&rz).  — *  Ciic'IeKS  — "  Mdsk'ers. — "  VVord^  (w5rdz) 


LIBERTY.  241 

That  grow  to  fetters ;  or  bind  down  thy  arms 
With  chains  conceal'd  in  chaplets. 

Oh !  not  yet 
Mayst  thou  unbrace  thy  corslet,  nor  lay  by 
Thy  s?z'ord,  nor  yet,  O  Freedom  1  close  thy  lids 
In  slumber ;  for  thine  enemy  never  sleeps. 
And  thou  must  watch  and  combat,  till  the  day 
Of  the  new  Earth^  and  Heaven.     But  wouldst  thou  rest 
Awhile  from  tumult  and  the  frauds  of  men, 
These  old  and  friendly  solitudes  invite 
Thy  visit.     They,  while  yet  the  forest  trees 
Were  young  upon  the  unviolated  earth, 
And  yet  the  moss-stains  on  the  rock  were  new, 
Beheld  thy  glorious  childhood,  and  rejoiced. 

W.  C.  Bryant.* 


►.    Liberty. 


LIBERTY,  gentlemen,  is  a  solemn  thing — a  welcome,  a  joyous, 
a  glorious  thing,  if  you  please ;  but  it  is  a  solemn  thing. 
A  free  people  must  be  a  thoughtful  people.  The  subjects  of 
a  despot  may  be  reckless  and  gay,  if  they  can.  A  free  people 
must  be  serious ;  for  it  has  to  do  the  greatest  thing  that  ever 
was  done  in  the  workP — to  govern  itself. 

"i.  That  hour  in  human  life  is  most  serious,  when  it  passes 
from  parental^  control  into  free  manhood :  then  must  the  man 
bind  the  righteous  law  upon  himself,  more  strongly  than  father 
or  mother  ever  bound  it  upon  him.  And  when  a  people  leaves 
the  leading-strings  of  prescriptive  authority,  and  enters  upon 
the  ground  of  freedom,  that  ground  must  be  fenced  wifli  law  ;  it 
must  be  tilled  with  wisdom ;  it  must  be  hallowed  with  prayer.* 
The  tribunal  of  justice,  the  free  school,  the  holy  church,^  must 
be  built  there,''  to, intrench,  to  defend,  and  to  keep  the  sacred 
ht  ritage. 

^  Earth  (5rth).— «  See  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  118. -»  World  (wirld). 
*  P&r'  Snt  al.— •  Prayer  (pr&r).— •  Church  (chSrch).—  There  (thir). 

n 


242  NATIONAL   FIFTH    READEK. 

3.  Liberty,  I  repeat,  is  a  solemn  thing.  The  world,  up  to  this 
time,  has  regarded  it  as  a  boon — not  as  a  bond.  And  there  is 
nothing,'  I  seriously  believe,  in  the  present  crises  of  human  af- 
fairs^— there  is  no  point  in  the  gre'^t  human  welfare,  on  which 
men's  ideas  so  much  need  to  be  cleared  up — to  be  advanced' — 
to  be  raised  to  a  higher  standard,  as  this  grand  and  terrible  re- 

[>onsibility  of  freedom. 

4.  In  the  universe  there  is  no  trust  so  awful  as  moral  freedom  ; 
and  all  good  civil  freedom  depends  upon  the  use  of  that.  But 
look  at  it.  Around  every  human,  every  rational  being,  is  drawn 
d  circle;^  the  space  within  is  cleared  from  obstruction,  or,  at 
least,  from  all  coercion ;  it  is  sacred  to  the  being  himself  who 
stands  there ;  it  is  secured  and  consecrated  to  his  own  responsi- 
bility. May  I  say  it? — God  himself  does  not  penetrate  there 
with  any  absolute,  any  coercive  power !  He  compels  the  winds 
and  waves  to  obey  him ;  he  compels  animal  instincts  to  obey 
him ;  but  he  does  not  compel  man  to  obey.  That  sphere  he 
leaves  free ;  he  brings  influences  to  bear  upon  it ;  but  the  last, 
final,  solemn,  infinite  question  between  right  and  wrong,  he 
leaves  to  man  himself. 

5.  Ah !  instead  of  madly  delighting  in  his  freedom,  I  could 
imagine  a  man  to  protest,  to  complain,  to  tremble  that  such  a 
tremendous  prerogative^  is  accorded  to  him.  But  it  is  accorded 
to  him ;  and  nothing  but  willing  obedience  can  discharge  that 
solemn  trust ;  nothing  but  a  heroism  greater  than  that  which 
fights  battles,  and  pours  out  its  blood  on  its  country's  altar — the 
heroism  of  self-renunciation  and  self-control. 

6.  Come  that  liberty !  I  invoke  it  with  all  the  ardor  of  the 
poets  and  orators  of  freedom ;  with  Spenser*  and  Milton,''  with 
Hampden^  and  Sydney,®  with  Rienzi'"  and  Dante."  with  Hamil- 

'  Nothing  (nuth'  ing).— '  Affairs  (af  f^rz').— »  Advanced  (ad  v&nst').— 
Circle  (s§r'kl). — '  Pre  r&g'a  tive,  an  exclusive  or  peculiar  privilege  or 
light. — •  Edmund  Spknser,  excepting  Shakspeare,  the  greatest  poet  of 
is  time,  author  of  the  "  Faerie  Queene,"  was  born  in  London  about 
1553,  where  he  died  on  the  16th  of  January,  1599. — ^  Milton,  see  Bio- 
graphical Sketch,  p.  582. — *  John  Hampden,  celebrated  for  his  resistance 
to  the  imposition  of  taxes  without  authority  of  parliament,  and  to  the 
royal  prerogative  of  Charles  I.,  commander  of  a  troop  in  the  parlia- 
mentary army,  wa«  born  at  London  in  1694,  and  was  mortally  wounded 


LADY    CLARE.  243 

ton"  and  Washington,'*  I  invoke  it.  Come  that  liberty !  come 
none'"^  that  does  not  lead  to  that !  Come  the  liberty  that  shall 
strike  off  every  chain,  not  only  of  iron,  and  iron-law,  but  of 
painful  constriction,  of  fear,  of  enslaving  passion,  of  mad  self 
will ;  the  liberty  of  perfect  truth^^  and  love,  of  holy  faith  and 
glad  obedience !  Orville  Dewey.  ^' 


70.    Lady  Claue. 

1.  TT  was"  the  time  when  lilies  blow, 
-L   And  clouds  are  highest  up  in  air, 
Lord  Ronald  brought  a  lily-white  doe 

To  give  his  cousin.  Lady  Clare. 

2.  I  trow  they  did  not  part  in  scorn : 

Lovers  long-betroth'd  were  they : 


in  an  affair  with  Prince  Rupert  on  the  18th  of  June,  1643. — •  Alqernon 
Sydney,  second  son  of  Robert,  Earl  of  Leicester,  England,  was  born 
about  the  year  1621.  In  early  youth  he  fought  in  the  ranks  of  the 
parliamentary  forces.  A  thorough  republican,  he  was  inimical  to  all 
monarchy,  and  opposed  to  the  ascendency  of  Cromwell.  He  was  abroad 
at  the  Restoration,  and  was  permitted  to  return  to  England  in  1677. 
For  his  supposed  connection  with  the  Ryehouse  Plot,  he  was  beheaded 
on  the  7th  of  December,  1683.  He  met  death  with  iron  resolution.  His 
very  able  "Discourses  concerning  Government"  was  a  posthumous 
work. — "  RiENZi,  the  orator,  famous  in  Roman  history  for  his  assump- 
tion of  dictatorship  in  that  capital,  was  born  about  1310,  and  was  dis- 
tinguished by  his  love  of  the  ancient  republican  institutions  of  Rome, 
and  by  his  profound  knowledge  of  antiquity.  He  was  massacred  on  the 
8th  of  October,  1354. — ^^  Dante,  the  poet,  author  of  the  "  Divina  Com- 
media,"  was  born  at  Florence  in  1265,  and  died  at  Ravenna  in  1321. — 
"  Alexander  Hamilton,  distinguished  as  a  statesman,  jurist,  soldier, 
and  financier,  one  of  the  ablest  officers  of  the  American  Revolution,  was 
born  in  the  West  Indies  in  1757.  In  1782  he  was  a  member  of  Congress 
from  New  York.  In  1789,  Washington,  the  first  President,  placed  liim 
at  the  head  of  the  treasury.  On  the  death  of  Washington,  in  1799,  his 
rank  made  him  commander-in-chief  of  the  American  army.  He  was 
challenged  by  Aaron  Burr,  and  a  duel  was  the  consequence,  in  which  lie 
was  mortally  wounded,  at  the  age  of  47. — "  Washington,  see  note  2, 
p.  205.— 1*  None  (nun).— 's  Truth  (trSth).— '«  See  Biographical  Sketrh, 
p.  176.—"  Was  (w6z). 


244  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Tliey  two  shall  wed  the  mSrrow  mom ; 
God's  blessing  on  the  day ! 

.     3.  "  He  does  not  love  me  for  my  birth, 

Nor  for  my  lands  so  broad  and  fair ; 
He  loves  me  for  my  own  true  worth, 
And  that  is  well,"  said  Lady  Clare. 

4.  In  there  came  old  Alice  the  nurse, 

Said,  "  Who  was  this  that  went  from  thee?" 
"  It  was  my  cousin,"  said  Lady  Clare ; 
"  To-morrow  he  weds  with  me." 

5.  "  0  God  be  thank'd  !"  said  Alice  the  nurse, 

"  That  all  comes  round  so  just  and  fair : 
Lord  Ronald  is  heir  of  all  your  lands. 
And  you  are  not  the  Lady  Clare." 

6.  *'  Are  ye  out  of  your  mind,  my  nurse,  my  nui-se  f 

Said  Lady  Clare,  "  that  ye  speak  so  wild  ?" 
"  As  God's  above,"  said  Alice  the  nurse, 
I  speak  the  truth  :  you  are  my  child. 

7.  **  The  old  Earl's  daughter  died  at  my  breast ; 

I  speak  the  truth  as  I  live  by  bread ! 
I  buried  her  like  my  own  sweet  child. 
And  put  my  child  in  her  stead." 

8.  "  Falsely,  falsely  have  ye  done, 

0  mother,"  she  said,  "  if  this  be  true, 
To  keep  the  best  man  under  the  sun 
So  many  years  from  his  due." 

0,  "Nay  now,  my  child,"  said  Alice  the  nurse, 
*'  But  keep  the  secret  for  your  life, 
And  all  you  have  will  be  Lord  Ronald's 
When  you  are  man  and  wife." 

0.  "  If  I'm  a  beggar  born,"  she  said, 

"  I  will  speak  out,  for  I  dare  not  lie: 
Pull  off,  pull  off  the  brooch  of  gold, 
And  fling  the  dliiinond  neckhice  by." 


LADY    CLARE.  245 

11.  "  Nay  now,  my  child,"  said  Alice  the  nurse, 

"But  keep  the  secret  all  ye  can." 
She  said,  "  Not  so  :  but  I  will  know, 
If  there  be  any  faith  in  man." 

12.  *'  Nay  now,  what  faith  ?"  said  Alice  the  nurse ;      ^ 

"  The  man  will  cleave  unto  his  right." 
"  And  he  shall  have  it,"  the  lady  replied, 
"Though  I  should  die  tonight." 

13.  "  Yet  give  one  kiss  to  your  mother  dear! 

Alas,  my  child,  I  sinned  for  thee." 
"  O  mother,  mother,  mother,"  she  said, 
"  So  strange  it  seems  to  me. 

14.  "  Yet  here's  a  kiss  for  mv  niother  dear, 

My  mother  dear,  if  this  be  so ; 
x\nd  lay  your  hand  upon  my  head. 
And  bless  me,  mother,  ere  I  go." 

15.  She  clad  herself  in  a  russet  gown — 

She  was  no  longer  Lady  Clare  : 
She  went  by  dale,  and  she  went  by  down, 
Wifti  a  single  rose  in  her  hair. 

1 6.  The  lily-white  doe  Lord  Ronald  had  brought 

Leapt  up  from  where  she  lay, 
Dropt  her  head  in  the  maiden's  hand. 
And  follow'd  her  all  the  way. 

17.  Down  stept  Lord  Ronald  from  his  tower 

"  O  Lady  Clare,  you  shame  your  worth ! 
Why  come  you  drest  like  a  village  maid. 
That  are  the  flower  of  all  the  earth  ?" 

18.  "  If  I  come  drest  like  a  village  maid, 

I  am  but  as  my  fortunes  are : 
1  am  a  beggar  born,"  she  said, 
*'  And  not  the  Lady  Clare." 

19.  "Play  me  no  tricks"  said  Lord  Ronald, 

"  For  I  am  yours  in  word  and  deed. 


246  NATIONAL   FIPTH    READEB. 

Play  me  no  tricks,"  said  Lord  Ronald, 
"  Your  riddle  is  hard  to  read." 

*20    Oh,  and  proudly  stood  she  up ! 

Her  heart  within  her  did  not  fail : 
She  look'd  into  Lord  Ronald's  eyes, 
And  told  him  all  her  nurse's  tale. 

21.  He — laugh'd  a  laugh  of  merry  scorn  : 

He  turn'd  and  kiss'd  her  where  she  stood : 
"  If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born, 

And  I,"  said  he,  "  the  next  of  blood — 

22.  *' If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born. 

And  I,"  said  he,  "  the  lawful  heir, 
We  two  will  wed  to-morrow  morn. 
And  you  shall  still  be — Lady  Clare." 

Alfred  Tennyson. 

Alfred  Tennyson,  poet  laureate  of  England,  the  son  of  a  clergyman,  wai 
born  in  Lincolnshire,  in  1810.  He  received  his  university  education  at  Truiity 
College,  Cambridge.  His  first  volume  of  poems  was  published  in  1830 ;  his  sec- 
ond, three  years  afterward.  Some  of  his  early  minor  pieces,  as  well  as  selec- 
tions from  "  The  Princess,"  are  simple,  trne  to  nature,  and  exquisitely  beautiful. 
"  In  Memoriam,"  one  of  his  most  characteristic  poems,  is  the  most  imjwrtant 
contribution  which  has  yet  been  given  to  what  may  strictly  be  entitled  Elegiac 
Poetry.  It  first  appeared  in  1850,  nearly  twenty  years  after  the  death  of  young 
Hallam,  the  son  of  the  celebrated  historian,  to  whom  he  was  bound  by  many 
endearing  ties,  and  to  whose  memory  the  work  is  a  tribute.  Careful  study,  and 
reflection  on  the  reader's  own  inmost  being,  are  required  to  fully  reveal  the 
imaginative  power,  the  wisdom,  and  the  spiritual  beauty  of  this  work.  The 
poet's  early  fame  is  fully  sustained  by  his  later  writings.  "  The  Charge  of  the 
Light  Brigade"  is  one  of  the  most  spirited  and  efl'ective  poems  ever  written. 
'•  Idylls  of  the  King,"  for  vigor,  exquisite  utterance,  and  varied  interest,  is 
orobably  inferior  to  no  corresponding  poem  in  any  language.  "  Lady  Clare," 
Ihe  selection  here  introduced,  while  well  adapted  to  public  reading  and  poetic 
'ecitation,  is  especially  valuable  as  an  exercise  in  Personation— see  p.  60. 


71.    Select  Passages  in  Yerse. 

I. 
The  Beauties  op  Nature. — Beattie. 

Oh  how  canst  thou  renounce  the  boundless  store 
Of  charms  that  nature  to  her  votary  vieldh? 


SELECT    PASSAGES    IN    VEK8E.  24? 

The  warbling  woodland,  the  resounding  shore, 
The  pomp  of  groves,  the  garniture  of  fields ; 

All  that  the  genial  ray  of  morning  gilds, 
And  all  that  echoes  to  the  song  of  even, 

All  that  the  mountain's  sheltering  bosom  shields, 
And  all  the  dread  magnificence  of  heaven. 
Oh  how  canst  thou  renounce,  and  hope  to  be  forgiven  ? 

n. 
Beauty. — Gat. 

What  is  the  blooming  tincture  of  the  skin 
To  peace  of  mind  and  harmony  within  ? 
What  the  bright  sparkling  of  the  finest  eye 
To  the  soft  soothing  of  a  calm  reply  ? 
Can  comeliness*  of  form,  or  shape,  or  air. 
Wife  comeliness  of  words  or  deeds  compare  ? 
No !  those  at  first  the  unwary  heart  may  gain, 
But  these,  these  only,  can  the  heart  retain. 

III. 
The  Poet.-^Shakspeare. 

The  poet's  eye,  in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling. 

Doth  glance  from  heaven  to  earth,  from  earth  to  heaven, 

And,  as  imagination  bodies  forth 

The  forms  of  things  unknown,  the  poet's  pen 

Turns  them  to  shapes,  and  gives  to  airy  nothing' 

A  local  habitation  and  a  name. 

IV. 

Flowers. — Hunt. 

We  are  the  sweet  flowers,  born  of  sunny  showers 

(Think,  whene'er  you  see  us,  what  our  beauty  saith) ; 
Utterance  mute  and  bright,  of  some  unknown  delight. 
We  fill  the  air  wifli  pleasure  by  our  simple  breath ; 
All  who  see  us  love  us, — we  befit  all  places ; 
Unto  sorrow  we  give  smiles,  and  unto  graces,  graces. 
Mark  our  ways,  how  noiseless  all,  and  sweetly  voiceless, 


(k)meline8s  (kim'lenes).  -'Nothing  (nutli  ing). 


248  NATIONAL   FIFTH   READEK. 

Though  the  March  winds  pipe,  to  make  our  passage  clear ; 

Not  a  whisper  tells  where  our  small  seed  dwells, 
Nor  is  known  the  moment  green  when  our  tips  appear. 
We  thread  the  earth  in  silence,  in  silence  build  our  bowers, — 
And  leaf  by  leaf  in  silence  show,  till  we  laugh  a-top,  sweet  flowers. 

V. 

Summer  Wind. — Bryant 

It  is  a  sultry  day ;  the  sun  has  drunk 
The  dew  that  lay  upon  the  morning  grass , 
There  is  no  rustling  in  the  I6fty  elm 
That  canopies  my  dwelling,  and  its  shade 
Scarce  cools  me.     All  is  silent,  save  the  faint 
And  interrupted  murmur  of  the  bee, 
Settling  on  the  sick  flowers,  and  then  again 
Instantly  on  the  wing.     The  plants  around 
Feel  the  too  potent  fervors ;  the  tall  maize 
Rolls  up  its  long,  green  leaves ;  the  clover  droops 
Its  tender  foliage,  and  declines  its  blooms. 
But  far  in  the  fierce  sunshine  tower  the  hills, 
Wifli  all  their  growth  of  woods,  silent  and  stem, 
A  s  if  the  scorching  heat  and  dazzling  light 
Were  but  an  element  they  loved.     Bright  clouds, 
Motionless  pillars  of  the  brazen  heaven, — 
Their  bases  on  the  mountains,  their  white  tops 
Shining  in  the  far  ether, — fire  the  air 
With  a  reflected  radiance,  and  make  turn 
The  gazer's  eye  away.    For  me,  I  lie 
Languidly  in  the  shade,  where  the  thick  turfj 
Yet  virgin  from  the  kisses  of  the  sun. 
Retains  some  freshness,  and  I  woo  the  wind 
That  still  delays  its  coming. 

VI. 

The  Last  Rose  of  Summer. — Moore. 

'Tis  the  last  rose  of  summer,  left  blooming  alone ; 
All  her  lovely  companions  are  faded  and  gone ; 
No  flower  of  her  kindred,  no  rose-bud,  it  nigh. 
To  reflect  back  her  blushes,  or  give  sigh  for  sigh! 


INFLUENCE   OF   HOME.  249 

Fll  not  leave  thee,  thou  l5ne  one !  to  pine  on  the  stem ; 
Since  the  lovely  are  sleeping,  go,  sleep  thoa  with  them ; 
Thus  kindly  I  scatter  thy  leaves  o'er  thy  bed, 
Where  thy  mates  of  the  garden  lie  scentless  and  dead. 
So  soon  may  I  follow,  when  friendships  decay, 
And  from  Love's  shining  circle  the  gems  drop  away ! 
When  true  hearts  lie  wither'd,  and  fond  ones  are  flown, 
Oh !  who  would  inhabit  this  bleak  world  alone  ? 


72.   Influence  of  Home. 

HOME  gives  a  certain  serenity  to  the  mind,  so  that  everything 
is  well  defined,  and  in  a  clear  atmosphere,  and  the  lesser 
beauties  brought  out  to  rejoice  in  the  pure  glow  which  floats 
over  and  beneath  them  from  the  earth  and  sky.  In  this  state 
of  mind  afflictions  come  to  us  chastened ;  and  if  the  wrongs  of 
the  world  cross  us  in  our  door-path,  we  put  them  aside  without 
anger.  Vices  are  about  us,  not  to  lure  us  away,  or  make  us 
morose,  but  to  remind  us  of  our  frailty  and  keep  down  our  pride. 

2.  We  are  put  into  a  right  relation  with  the  world ;  neither 
holding  it  in  proud  scorn,  like  the  solitary  man,  nor  being  car- 
ried along  by  shifting  and  hurried  feelings,  and  vague  and  care- 
less notions  of  things,  like  the  world's  man.  We  do  not  take 
novelty  for  improvement,  or  set  up  vogue  for  a  rule  of  conduct ; 
neither  do  we  despair,  as  if  all  great  virtues  had  departed  with 
the  years  gone  by,  though  we  see  new  vices  and  frailties  taking 
growth  in  the  very  light  which  is  spreading  over  the  earth. 

3.  Our  safest  way  of  coming  into  communion  with  mankind 
is  through  our  own  household.  For  there  our  sorrow  and  regret 
at  the  failings  of  the  bad  are  in  proportion  to  our  love,  while  our 
familiar  intercourse  with  the  good  has  a  secretly  assimilating  in- 
tiiience  upon  our  characters.  The  domestic  man  has  an  inde- 
ucndence  of  thought  which  puts  him  at  ease  in  society,  and  a 
cheerfulr.ess  and  benevolence  of  feeling  which  seem  to  ray  out 
iVom  him,  and  to  diflfuse  a  pleasurable  sense  over  those  near  him, 
like  a  soft,  bright  day. 

4.  As  domestic  life  strengthens  a  man's  virtue,  so  does  it  helf 
to  a  sound  judgment  and  a  right  balancing  of  things,  and  gives 
an  integrity  and  propriety  to  the  whole  character.     God,  in  hit 


250  NATIONAL    FIFTH   BEADEE. 

goodness,  has  ordained  that  virtue  should  make  its  own  enjoy- 
ment, and  that  wherever  a  vice  or  frailty  is  rooted  out,  some- 
thing should  spring  up  to  be  a  beauty  and  delight  in  its  stead. 
But  a  man  of  a  character  rightly  cast,  has  pleasures  at  home, 
which,  though  fitted  to  his  highest  nature,  are  common  to  him  as 
ois  daily  food;  and  he  moves  about  his  house  under  a  continued 
8eii,=5e  of  them,  and  is  happy  almost  without  heeding  it. 

a.  Women  have  been  called  angels  in  love-tales  and  sonrietb, 
lill  we  have  almost  learned  to  think  of  angels  as  little  bettei 
than  woman.  Yet  a  man  who  knows  a  woman  thoroughly,  and 
loves  her  truly, — and  there  are  women  who  may  be  so  known 
and  loved, — will  find,  after  a  few  years,  that  his  relish  for  the 
grosser  pleasures  is  lessened,  and  that  he  has  grown  into  a  fond- 
ness for  the  intellectual  and  refined  without  an  effort,  and  almost 
unawares. 

6.  He  has  been  led  on  to  virtue  through  his  pleasures ;  and 
the  delights  of  the  eye,  and  the  gentle  play  of  that  passion  which 
is  the  most  inward  and  romantic  in  our  nature,  and  which  keeps 
much  of  its  character  amidst  the  concerns  of  life,  have  held  him 
in  a  kind  of  spiritualized  existence :  he  shares  his  very  being 
wifli  one  who,  a  creature  of  this  world,  and  with  something  of 
the  world's  frailties. 

Is  yet  a  spirit  still,  and  bright. 
With  something  of  an  angel  light. 

With  all  the  sincerity  of  a  companionship  of  feeling,  cares, 
sSrrows,  and  enjoyments,  her  presence  is  as  the  presence  of  a 
purer  being,  and  there  is  that  in  her  nature  which  seems  to  bring 
him  nearer  to  a  better  world.  She  is,  as  it  were,  linked  to 
angels,  and  in  his  exalted  moments  he  feels  himself  held  by  the 
same  tie. 

1,  In  the  ordinary  affairs  of  life,  a  woman  has  a  greater  infin- 
ence  over  those  near  her  than  a  man.  While  our  feelings  are, 
for  the  most  part,  as  retired  as  anchorites,  hers  are  in  play  before 
us.  We  hear  them  in  her  varying  voice;  we  see  th/om  in  the 
beautiful  and  harmonious  undulations  of  her  movements — in  the 
quick  shifting  hues  of  her  face — in  her  eye,  glad  and  bright,  then 
fond  and  suffused ;  her  frame  is  alive  and  active  wifli  what  is  at 
her  heart,  and  all  the  outward  form  speaks. 


AN     .ILD   HAUHT.  251 

8.  Sh€  seems  of  a  finer  mould  than  we,  and  cast  in  a  form  of, 
beauty,  which,  like  all  beauty,  acts  wifli  a  mora)  influence  upon 
our  hearts ;  and  as  she  moves  about  us,  we  feel  a  movement 
within  which  rises  and  spreads  gently  over  us,  harmonizing  us 
with  her  own.  And  can  any  man  listen  to  this — can  his  eye, 
day  after  day,  rest  upon  this — and  he  not  be  touched  by  it,  and 
made  better  ? 

9.  The  dignity  of  a  woman  has  its  peculiar  character ;  it  awes 
more  than  that  of  man.  His  is  more  physical,  bearing  itself  up 
with  an  energy  of  courage  which  we  may  brave,  or  a  strength 
which  we  may  struggle  against :  he  is  his  own  avenger,  and  we 
may  stand  the  brunt.  A  woman's  has  nothing  of  this  force  in 
it ;  it  is  of  a  higher  quality,  and  too  delicate  for  mortal  touch. 

R.  H.  Dana. 

Richard  Henry  Dana  was  bom  at  Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  on  the  15th 
of  November,  1787.  He  graduated  at  Harvard  in  1807.  He  opened  a  law-office 
;n  Newport,  R.  I.,  in  1811,  and  became  a  member  of  the  legislature ;  but  his 
constitutional  sensitiveness  and  feeble  health  compelled  him  to  abandon  his  pro- 
fession soon  after.  For  two  years,  from  1818,  he  aided  in  editing  the  N.  A.  Re- 
view ;  and  in  1821  began  the  publication  of  "  The  Idle  Man,"  a  periodical  in 
which  he  communicated  to  the  public  his  Tales  and  Essays.  After  the  discon- 
tinuance of  that  paper,  he  wrote  able  articles  for  several  of  the  best  periodicals 
of  the  country.  The  first  volume  of  his  poems,  containing  "  The  Bucaneer," 
was  printed  in  1827.  An  edition  of  his  writings,  in  two  volumes,  was  published 
in  New  York  in  1850.  Mr.  Dana  at  present  passes  his  time  between  his  town 
residence  at  Boston  and  his  country  retirement  at  Cape  Ann,  where  he  can  in- 
dulge in  his  love  of  nature.  He  is  regarded  always,  by  as  many  as  have  the 
honor  of  his  acquaintance,  with  admiration  and  the  most  reverent  affection. 
All  of  his  writings  belong  to  the  permanent  literature  of  the  countr-- ,  and  yearly 
find  mere  and  more  readers.  They  are  distinguished  for  profounu  ohilosophy 
simple  sentiment,  and  pure  and  vigorous  diction. 


73.  An  Old  Haunt. 

1.  nriHE  rippling  water,  wifili  its  drowsy  tone  ; 

JL   The  tall  elms,  towering  in  their  stately  pride ; 
And — sorrow's  type — the  willow,  sad  and  lone. 
Kissing  in  graceful  woe  the  murmuring  tide  ; 

2.  The  gray  church-tower ;  and  dimly  seen  beyond, 

The  faint  hills  gilded  by  the  parting  sun ; 
All  were  the  same,  and  seem'd  with  greeting  fond 
To  welcome  me  as  they  of  old  had  done. 


252  NATIONAL  FIFTH   EEADEE. 

3.  And  for  a  while  I  stood  as  in  a  trance,' 

On  that  loved  spot,  forgetting  toil  anc  pain ; 
Buoyant^  my  limbs,  and  keen  and  bright  my  glance  :* 
For  that  brief  space  I  was  a  boy  again !'' 

4   Again  wifli  giddy  mates  I  careless*  playM, 

Or  plied  the  quivering  oar,  on  conquest''  bent : 
Again,  beneath  the  tall  elms'  silent  shade, 
I  woo'd  the  fair,^  and  won  the  sweet  consent 

5.  But  brief,  alas !'  the  spell ;  for  suddenly 

Peal'd  from  the  tower  the  old  familiar  chimes, 
And  wifh  their  clear,  heart-thrilling  melody, 
Awaked  the  spectral  forms  of  darker  times. 

6.  And  I  remember'd  all  that  years  had  wrought : 

How  bow'd  my  care-worn^  frame,  how  dimm'd  my  eye  I 
How  poor  the  gauds  by  Youth'"  so  keenly  sought ! 
How  quench'd  and  dull  Youth's  aspirations  high ! 

Y.  And  in  half"  mournful,  half  upbraiding  host, 
Duties  neglected — high  resolves  unkept — 
And  many  a  heart  by  death  or  falsehood  lost— 
In  lightning  current  o'er  my  bosom  swept. 

8.  Then  bow'd  the  stubborn  knees,  as  backward  sped 
The  self-accusing  thoughts  in  dread  array, 
And  slowly,  from  their  long-congealed  bed. 
Forced  the  remorseful  tgars  their  silent  way. 

^   Bitter,  y§t  healing  drops !  in  mercy"  sent, 
Like  soft  dews  falling  on  a  thirsty'*  plain, — 
And  ere  those  chimes  their  last^*  faint  notes  had  spent, 
Strengthen'd  and  calm'd,"^  I  stood  erect  again. 

10.  Strengthen'd,  the  task'^  allotted  to  fulfill; 

Calm'd,  the  thick-coming  sorrows  to  endure ; 
Fearful  of  naught  but  of  my  own  frail  will, — 
I,  His  almighty  strength  and  aid  secure. 


» Tr&nce.— '  Buoyant  (bwil  'ant).— » Gl3bce.— *  Again  (a  gSn').-  •  C&re'- 
less.  —  •  Conquest  (kSug' kwfest).  — '  Fhk.  —  •  AlJs'.  —  •  Cire'  w6rn.  — 
"  Yfiuth.  —  "  miL  —  "  M5r  cy.  —  "  Thirsty  (thSrsf  I).  -  "  Ust.  -- 
»»  Calmed  (kHrnd).— »•  T&sk. 


THE    WIDOW    AND    HEK    SON.  253 

1.  For  a  sweet  voice  had  whisper'd  hope  to  me, — 
Had  through  my  darkness  shed  a  kiniiy  ray : 
It  said :  "  The  past  is  fix'd  immutably, 
Yet  is  there  comfort  in  the  coming  day !" 

Household  Words. 


74.  The  Widow  Am)  her  Son. 

DURING  my  residence  in  the  country,  I  used  frequently  to 
attend  at  the  old  village  church.  Its  shadowy  aisles,  its 
raoldering  monuments,  its  dark  oaken  panneling,  all  reverend 
wi&  the  gloom  of  departed  years,  seemed  to  fit  it  for  the  haunt 
of  solemn  meditation.  A  Sunday,  too,  in  the  country,  is  so  holy 
in  its  repose ;  such  a  pensive  quiet  reigns  over  the  face  of  nature, 
that  every  restless  passion  is  charmed  down,  and  we  feel  all  the 
natural  religion  of  the  soul  gently  springing  up  within  us. 

2.  I  do  not  pretend  to  be  what  is  called  a  devout  man,  but 
there  are  feelings  that  visit  me  in  a  country  church,  amidst  the 
oeautiful  serenity  of  nature,  which  I  experience  nowhere  else ; 
and  if  not  a  more  religious,  I  think  I  am  a  better  man  on  Sun- 
day than  on  any  other  day  of  the  seven.  But  in  this  church  I 
felt  myself  continually  thrown  back  upon  the  world  by  the  fri- 
gidity and  pomp  of  the  poor  worms  around  me. 

3.  The  only  being  that  seemed  thoroughly  to  feel  the  humble 
and  prostrate  piety  of  a  true  Christian,  was  a  poor  decrepit  old 
woman,  bending  under  the  weight  of  years  and  infirmities.  She 
bore  the  traces  of  something  better  than  abject  poverty.  The 
lingerings  of  decent  pride  were  visible  in  her  appearance.  Her 
dress,  though  humble  in  the  extreme,  was  scrupulously  clean. 
Some  trivial  respect,  too,  had  been  awarded  her,  for  she  did  not 
take  her  seat  among  the  village  poor,  but  sat  alone  on  the  steps 
of  the  altar. 

4.  She  seemed  to  have  survived  all  love,  all  friendship,  all 
«*ociety,  and  to  have  nothing  left  her  but  the  hopes  of  heaven. 
When  I  saw  her  feebly  rising  and  bending  her  aged  form  in 
piayer, — habitually  conning  her  prayer-book,  which  her  palsied 
bund  and  failing  eyes  could  not  permit  her  to  read,  but  which 
she  evidently  knew  b}'  heart» — I  felt  persuaded  that  the  falter- 


254  National  FiFrH  reader. 

ing  voice  of  that  poor  woman  arose  to  heaven  far  before  the  re- 
sponses of  the  clerk,  the  swell  of  the  organ,  or  the  chanting  of 
the  choir. 

5.  I  am  fond  of  loitering  about  country  churches,  and  this 
was  so  delightfully  situated,  that  it  frequently  attracted  me.  It 
stood  on  a  knoll,  round  which  a  small  stream  made  a  beautiful 
bend,  and  then  wound  its  way  through  a  long  reach  of  soft 
meadow  scenery.  The  church  was  surrounded  by  yew-trees, 
which  seemed  almost  coeval  wifh  itself.  Its  tall  GSthic  spire 
shot  up  lightly  from  among  them,  with  rooks  and  crows  generally 
wheeling  about  it. 

6.  I  was  seated  there  one  still  sunny  morning,  watching  two 
laborers  who  were  digging  a  grave.  They  had  chosen  one  of 
the  most  remote  and  neglected  corners  of  the  church-yard, 
where,  by  the  number  of  nameless  graves  around,  it  would  ap- 
pear that  the  indigent  and  friendless  were  hurried  into  the  earth. 
I  was  told  that  the  new-made  grave  was  for  the  only  son  of  a 
poor  widow.  While  I  was  meditating  on  the  distinctions  of 
worldly  rank,  which  extend  thus  down  into  the  very  dust,  the 
toll  of  the  bell  announced  the  approach  of  the  funeral. 

V.  They  were  the  obsequies  of  poverty,  wifli  which  pride  had 
nothing  to  do.  A  coffin  of  the  plainest  materials,  without  pall 
or  other  covering,  was  borne  by  some  of  the  villagers.  The 
sexton  walked  before,  with  an  air  of  cold  indiflference.  There 
were  no  mock  mourners  in  the  trappings  of  aflfected  woe,  but 
there  was  one  real  mourner,  who  feebly  tottered  after  the  corpse. 
It  was  the  aged  mother  of  the  deceased — the  poor  old  woman 
whom  I  had  seen  seated  on  the  steps  of  the  altar.  She  was 
supported  by  a  humble  friend,  who  was  endeavoring  to  comfort 
her.  A  few  of  the  neighboring  poor  had  joined  the  train,  and 
some  children  of  the  village  were  running  hand  in  hand,  now 
shouting  with  unthinking  mirth,  and  sometimes  pausing  to  gaze 
with  childish  curiosity  on  the  grief  of  the  mourner. 

8.  As  the  fiineral  train  approached  the  grave,  the  parson 
issued  out  of  the  church  porch,  arrayed  in  the  surplice,  wifli 
prayer-Dook  in  hand,  and  attended  by  the  clerk.  The  service, 
however,  was  a  mere  act  of  charity.  The  deceased  had  been 
destitute,  and  the  survivor  was  pennyless.  It  was  shuffled 
tlirough,  therefore,  in  form,  but  coldly  and  unfeelingly.     The 


THE    WIDOW    AND   HEB   SOU.  255 

well-fed  priest  scarcely  moved  ten  steps  from  the  church  door ; 
his  voice  could  scarcely  be  heard  at  the  grave ;  and  never  did  I 
hear  the  funeral  service,  that  sublime  and  touching  ceremony, 
turned  into  such  a  frigid  mummery  of  words. 

9.  I  approached  the  grave.  The  coffin  was  placed  on  the 
ground.  On  it  were  inscribed  the  name  and  age  of  the  deceased 
— "George  Somers,  aged  26  years."  The  poor  mother  had 
been  assisted  to  kneel  down  at  the,  head  of  it.  Her  withered 
hands  were  clasped  as  if  in  prayer ;  but  I  could  perceive,  by  a 
feeble  rocking  of  the  body  and  a  convulsive  motion  of  the  lips, 
that  she  was  gazing  on  the  last  relics  of  her  son  w^ifh  the  yearn- 
ings of  a  mother's  heart. 

10.  The  service  being  ended,  preparations  were  made  to  de- 
posit the  coffin  in  the  earth.  There  was  that  bustling  stir  that 
breaks  so  harshly  on  the  feelings  of  grief  and  affection :  direc- 
tions given  in  the  cold  tones  of  business ;  the  striking  of  spades 
into  sand  and  gravel,  which  at  the  grave  of  those  we  love  is  of 
all  sounds  the  most  withering.  The  bustle  around  seemed  to 
awaken  the  mother  from  a  wretched  reverie.  She  raised  her 
glazed  eyes,  and  looked  about  wi6i  a  faint  wildness.  As  the 
men  approached  with  cords  to  lower  the  coffin  into  the  grave, 
she  wrung  her  hands  and  broke  into  an  agony  of  grief.  The 
poor  woman  who  attended  her  took  her  by  the  arm,  endeavored 
to  raise  her  from  the  earth,  and  to  whisper  something  like  con- 
solation— "Nay,  now — nay,  now — don't  take  it  so  sorely  to 
heart."  She  could  only  shake  her  head  and  wring  her  hands  as 
one  not  to  be  comforted. 

11.  As  they  lowered  the  body  into  the  earth,  the  creaking  of 
the  cords  seemed  to  agonize  her ;  but  when,  on  some  accidental 
obstruction,  there  was  a  jostling  of  the  coffin,  all  the  tenderness 
of  the  mother  burst  forth ;  as  if  any  harm  could  come  to  him 
who  was  far  beyond  the  reach  of  worldly  suffering.  I  could  see 
no  more — ^my  heart  swelled  into  my  throat — my  eyes  filled  wifh 
tears — I  felt  as  if  I  were  acting  a  barbarous  part  in  standing  by 
and  gazing  idly  on  this  scene  of  maternal  anguish.  I  wandered 
to  another  part  of  the  church-yard,  where  I  remained  until  the 
funeral  train  had  dispersed. 

12.  When  I  saw  the  mother  slowly  and  painfully  quitting  the 
grave,  leaving  behind  her  the  remains  of  all  that  was  dej^r  to  hex 


256  NATIONAL   FIFIH    READER. 

on  earth,  and  returning  +o  silence  and  dcbtitntion,  my  heart 
ached  for  her.  What,  th  ught  I,  are  the  distresses  of  the  rich  ? 
They  have  friends  to  socthe — pleasures  to  beguile — a  world  to 
divert  and  dissipate  their  griefs.  What  are  the  sorrows  of  the 
young  ?  Their  growing  minds  soon  close  above  the  wound — 
their  elastic  spirits  soon  rise  beneafh  the  pressure — their  green 
and  ductile  affections  soon  twine  around  new  objects.  But  the 
sorrows  of  the  poor,  who  bave  no  outward  appliances  to  soothe 
— the  sorrows  of  the  aged,  wifli  whom  life  at  best  is  but  a  win- 
try day,  and  who  can  look  for  no  after-growth  of  joy — the  sor- 
rows of  a  widow,  aged,  solitary,  destitute,  mourning  over  an  only 
son,  the  last  solace  of  her  years, — these  are  the  sorrows  which 
raake  us  feel  the  im 'potency  of  consolation. 


75.  The  Widow  and  her  Son — concluded. 

IT  was  some  time  before  I  left  the  church-yard.  On  my  way 
homeward,  I  met  wifh  the  woman  who  had  acted  as  com- 
forter :  she  was  just  returning  from  accompanying  the  mother 
to  her  lonely  habitation,  and  I  drew  from  her  some  particulars 
connected  with  the  affecting  scene  I  had  witnessed. 

2.  The  parents  of  the  deceased  had  resided  in  the  village  from 
childhood.  They  had  inhabited  one  of  the  neatest  cottages,  and 
by  various  rural  occupations,  and  the  assistance  of  a  small  gar- 
den, had  supported  themselves  creditably  and  comfortably,  and 
led  a  happy  and  a  blameless  life.  They  had  one  son,  who  had 
grown  up  to  be  the  staff  and  pride  of  their  age.  "O,  Sir!" 
said  the  good  woman,  "  he  was  such  a  likely  lad,  so  sweet-tem- 
pered, so  kind  to  every  one  around  him,  so  dutiful  to  his  parents ! 
It  did  one's  heart  good  to  see  him  of  a  Sunday,  drest  out  in  hia 
best,  so  tall,  so  straight,  so  cheery,  supporting  his  old  mother  to 
church, — for  she  was  always  fonder  of  leaning  on  George's  arm, 
than  on  her  good  man's;  and,  poor  soul,  she  might  well  be 
proud  of  him,  for  a  finer  lad  there  was  not  in  the  country 
round." 

3.  Unfortunately,  the  son  was  tempted,  daring  a  year  of 
scarcity  and  agricultural  hardship,  to  enter  into  the  service  of 
one  of  the  small  craft  tl  at  plied  on  a  neighboring  river.     He 


THE    WIDOW    AKD    HKR    SON.  257 

had  not  been  long  in  this  employ,  when  he  was  entrapped  by  a 
press-gang,  and  ca-'-ied  off  to  sea.  His  parents  received  the 
tidings  of  his  seizure,  but  beyond  that  they  could  learn  nothing. 
It  was  the  loss  of  their  mam  prop.  The  father,  who  was  already 
infirm,  grew  heartless  and  melancholy,  and  sunk  into  his  grave. 

4.  The  widow,  left  lonely  in  her  age  and  feebleness,  could  no 
longer  support  herself,  and  came  upon  the  parish.  Still  there 
was  a  kind  feeling  toward  her  thi  Dughout  the  village,  and  a  cer- 
tain respect  as  being  one  of  the  oldest  inhabitants.  As  no  one 
applied  for  the  cottage  in  which  she  had  passed  so  many  happy 
days,  she  was  permitted  to  remain  in  it,  where  she  lived  solitary 
and  almost  helpless.  The  few  wants  of  nature  were  chiefly  sup- 
plied from  the  scanty  productions  of  her  little  garden,  which  the 
neighbors  would  now  and  then  cultivate  for  her. 

5.  It  was  but  a  few  days  before  the  time  at  which  these  cir- 
cumstances were  told  me,  that  she  was  gathering  some  vegeta- 
bles for  her  repast,  when  she  heard  the  cottage-door,  that  faced  the 
garden,  suddenly  opened.  A  stranger  came  out,  and  seemed  to 
be  looking  eagerly  and  wildly  around.  He  was  dressed  in  sea- 
man's clothes,  was  emaciated  and  ghastly  pale,  and  bore  the  air 
of  one  broken  by  sickness  and  hardships.  He  saw  her,  and  hast- 
ened toward  her ;  but  his  steps  were  faint  and  faltering :  he  sank 
on  his  knees  before  her,  and  sobbed  like  a  child.  The  poor 
woman  gazed  upon  him  wifli  a  vacant  and  wandering  eye — 
"  O  my  dear,  dear  mother !  don't  you  know  your  son !  your 
poor  boy  George  1"  It  was,  indeed,  the  wreck  of  her  once  noble 
lad ;  who,  shattered  by  wounds,  by  sickness,  and  foreign  impris- 
onment, had,  at  length,  dragged  his  wasted  limbs  homeward,  to 
repose  among  the  scenes  of  his  childhood. 

6.  I  will  not  attempt  to  detail  the  particulars  of  such  a  meet- 
ing, where  joy  and  sorrow  were  so  completely  blended :  still  he 
was  alive ! — he  was  come  home ! — he  might  yet  live  to  comfort 
and  cherish  her  old  age !  Nature,  however,  was  exhausted  in 
him ;  and  if  any  thing  had  been  wanting  to  finish  the  work  of 
fate,  the  desolation  of  his  native  cottage  would  have  been  suf- 
ficient. He  stretched  himself  on  the  pallet  where  his  widowed 
mother  had  passed  many  a  sleepless  night,  and  he  never  rose 
from  it  again. 

7.  The  villagers,  when  they  heard  that  George  Somers  had 


258  NATIONAL    FirrU    KKADKR. 

returned,  crowded  to  see  him,  offering  every  comfort  and  assist- 
ance that  their  humble  means  aflforded.  He,  however,  was  too 
weak  to  talk — he  could  only  look  his  thanks.  His  mother  was 
his  constant  attendant,  and  he  seemed  unwilling  to  be  helped  by 
any  other  hand. 

8.  There  is  something  in  sickness  that  breaks  down  the  pride 
of  manhood;  that  softens  the  heart,  and  brings  it  back  to  tlu^ 
feelings  of  infancy.  Who  that  has  suffered,  even  in  advance<l 
life,  in  sickness  and  despondency — who  that  has  pined  on  a 
weary  bed  in  the  neglect  and  loneliness  of  a  foreign  land — but 
has  thought  on  the  mother  "that  looked  on  his  childhood," 
that  smoothed  his  pillow,  and  administered  to  his  helplessness  ! 

9.  Oh!  there  is  an  enduring  tenderness  in  the  love  of  a 
mother  to  a  son,  that  transcends  all  other  affections  of  the 
heart.  It  is  neither  to  be  chilled  by  selfishness,  nor  daunted  by 
danger,  nor  weakened  by  worthlessness,  nor  stifled  by  ingrati- 
tude. She  will  sacrifice  every  comfort  to  his  convenience ;  she 
will  surrender  every  pleasure  to  his  enjoyment ;  she  will  glory 
in  his  fame,  and  exult  in  his  prosperity ;  and,  if  adversity  over- 
take him,  he  will  be  the  dearer  to  her  by  misfortune ;  and,  if 
disgrace  settle  upon  his  name,  she  will  still  love  and  cherish 
him ;  and,  if  all  the  world  besides  cast  hira  off,  she  will  be  all  the 
world  to  him. 

10.  Poor  George  Somers  had  known  well  what  it  was  to  be 
in  sickness,  and  none  to  soothe — lonely  and  in  prison,  and  none 
to  visit  him.  He  could  not  endure  his  mother  from  his  sight ; 
if  she  moved  away,  his  eye  would  follow  her.  She  would  sit  for 
hours  by  his  bed,  watching  him  as  he  slept.  Sometimes  ho 
would  start  from  a  feverish  dream,  look  anxiously  up  until  he 
saw  her  venerable  form  bending  over  him,  when  he  would  take 
her  hand,  lay  it  on  his  bosom,  and  fall  asleep  wifh  the  tranquil  - 
lity  of  a  child.     In  this  way  he  died. 

11.  My  first  impulse,  on  hearing  this  humble  tale  of  afflictii>ii, 
was  to  visit  the  cottage  of  the  mourner,  and  administer  pecuni- 
ary assistance,  and,  if  possible,  comfort.  I  found,  however,  on 
inqui'ry,  that  the  good  feelings  of  the  villagers  had  prompted 
them  to  do  every  thing  that  the  case  admitted ;  and  as  the  poor 
know  best  how  to  console  each  other^s  sorrows,  I  did  rot  ven- 
ture to  intrude. 


TASBING    AWAY.  25? 

12.  The  next  Sunday  I  was  at  the  village  church;  when,  to 
my  surprise,  I  saw  the  poor  old  woman  tottering  down  the  ais.e 
to  her  accustomed  seat  on  the  steps  of  the  altar.  She  had  made 
an  effort  to  put  on  something  like  mourning  for  her  son ;  and 
nothing  could  be  more  touching  than  this  struggle  between 
pious  affection  and  utter  poverty  :  a  black  ribbon  or  so — a  faded 
black  handkerchief — and  one  or  two  more  such  humble  attempts 
to  express  by  outward  signs  that  grief  which  passes  show. 
'V\Tien  I  looked  round  upon  the  storied  monuments,  the  stately 
hatchments,  the  cold  marble  pomp,  wifli  which  grandeur  mourn- 
ed magnificently  over  departed  pride ;  and  turned  to  this  poor 
widow,  bowed  down  by  age  and  sorrow  at  the  altar  of  her  God, 
and  offering  up  the  prayers  and  praises  of  a  pious,  though  a 
broken  heart,  I  felt  that  this  living  monument  of  real  grief  was 
worth  them  all. 

13.  I  related  her  stoiy  to  some  of  the  wealthy  members  of 
the  congregation,  and  they  were  moved  at  it.  They  exerted 
themselves  to  render  her  situation  more  comfortable,  and  to 
lighten  her  afflictions.  It  was,  however,  but  smoothing  a  few 
steps  to  the  gi'ave.  In  the  course  of  a  Sunday  or  two  after,  she 
was  missed  from  her  usual  seat  at  church,  and  before  I  left  the 
neighborhood,  I  heard,  wifh  a  feeling  of  satisfaction,  that  she 
had  quietly  breathed  her  last,  and  gone  to  rejoin  those  she 
loved,  in  that  world  where  sorrow  is  never  known,  and  friends 
are  never  parted.  WAsmNOTON  lEvma.' 


76.  Passing  Away. 

WAS  it  the  chime  of  a  tiny  bell, 
That  came  so  sweet  to  my  dreaming  ear, 
Like  the  silvery  tones  of  a  fairy's  shell, 

That  he  winds  on  the  beach  so  mellow  and  clear. 
When  the  winds  and  the  waves  lie  together  asleep, 
And  the  moon  and  the  fairy^  are  w&tching  the  d'^op, 
She  dispensing  h3r  silvery  light. 
And  he  his  notes  as  silvery  quite, 

^S«e  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  114.    -•  Fairy  (f&r  i). 


*2()0  NATIONAL    FIFfH    READER. 

While  the  boatman  listens  and  ships  his  oar, 
To  catcli  the  music  that  comes  from  the  shore? — 
Hark !  the  notes  on  my  ear  that  play. 
Are  set  to  words ;  as  they  float,  they  say, 
"  Passing'  away  !  passing  away  !" 

2.  But,  no ;  it  was  not  a  fairy's  shell, 

Blown  on  the  beach,  so  mellow  and  clear : 
Nor  was  it  the  tongue  of  a  silver  oell 

Striking  the  hours,  that  fell  on  my  ear. 
As  I  lay  in  my  dream  :  ygt  was  it  a  chime 
That  told  of  the  flow  of  the  stream  of  Time ; 
For  a  beautiful  clock  from  the  ceiling  hung. 
And  a  plump  little  girl,^  for  a  pendulum,  swung ; 
(As  you've  sometimes  seen,  in  a  little  ring 
That  hangs  in  his  cage,  a  canary  bird  swing ;) 
And  she  held  to  her  bosom  a  budding  bouquet  { 
And  as  she  enjoy'd  it,  she  seem'd  to  say, 
"  Passing  away  !  passing  away  !" 

3.  Oh,  how  bright  were  the  wheels,  tnat  told 

Of  the  lapse  of  time  as  they  moved  round  slow ! 
And  the  hands,  as  they  swept  o'er  the  dial  of  gold, 

Seem'd  to  point  to  the  girl  below. 
And  lo !  she  had  changed ; — in  a  few  short  hours. 
Her  bouquet  had  become  a  garland  of  flowers. 
That  she  held  in  her  outstretch'd  hands,  and  flung 
This  way  and  that,  as  she,  dancing,^  swung 
In  the  fullness  of  grace  and  womanly  pride. 
That  told  me  she  soon  was  to  be  a  bride ; 

Yet  then,  when  expecting  her  happiest  day, 
In  the  same  sweet  voice  I  heard  her  say, 
"  Passing  away  !  passing  away  !" 

4.  While  I  gazed  on  that  fair  one's  cheek,  a  shade 

Of  thought,  or  care,'  stole  sSftly  over, 
Like  that  by  a  cloud  in  a  summer's  day  made, 
Looking  down  on  a  field  of  blossoming  clover. 

» pass' ing.— •  Girl  (gflrl).  -•  Bouquet  (bfl  ki').— *  D&nc'  ing.— •  Clue. 


PASSING    AWAY.  201 

The  rose  y6t  lay  on  her  cheek,  but  its  fluah 
Had  something  lost  of  its  brilliant  blush ; 

And  the  light  in  her  eye,  and  the  light  on  the  wheels, 
That  march'd  so  calmly  round  above  her, 

Was  a  little  dimm'd — as  when  evening  steals 
Upon  noon's  hot  face  : — yet  one  couldn't  but  love  her ; 
For  she  look'd  like  a  mother  whose  first'  babe  lay 
Rock'd  on  her  breast,  as  she  swung  all  day ; 
And  she  seem'd  in  the  same  silver  tone  to  say, 
"  Passing  away  !  passing  away  !" 

6.  While  yet  I  look'd,  what  a  change  there  came ! 
Her  eye  was  quench'd,  and  her  cheek  was  wan ; 
Stooping  and  stafi^'d'  was  her  wither'd  frame, 

Yet  just  as  busily  swung  she  on  : 
The  garland  beneath  her  had  fallen  to  dust ; 
The  wheels  above  her  were  eaten  with  rust; 
The  hands,  that  over  the  dial  swept, 
Grew  crook'd  and  tarnish'd,  but  on  they  kept ; 
And  still  there  came  that  silver  tone 
From  the  shrivel'd  lips  of  the  toothless  crone, 
(Let  me  never  forget,  to  my  dying  day, 
The  tone  or  the  burden  of  that  lay) — 

"  Passing  away  !  passing  away  !"      j,  Pibkpont. 

Rev.  John  Pierpont,  author  of  the  **  Airs  of  Palestine,"  Mias  bom  at  Litch- 
field, Connecticut,  April  6, 1785.  He  entered  Yale  College  when  fifteen  years 
old,  graduated  in  1804,  and  passed  the  four  subsequent  years  as  a  private  tutor  in 
the  family  of  Col.  Wm.  AUston,  of  South  Carolina.  He  then  returned  home, 
studied  law  in  the  celebrated  school  of  his  native  town,  and  was  admitted  to 
practice  in  1812.  About  the  same  period  he  delivered  his  poem  entitled  "  The 
Portrait,"  before  the  Washington  Benevolent  Society,  of  Newburyport,  to  which 
place  he  had  removed.  Impaired  health,  and  the  unsettled  state  of  affairs  pro- 
duced by  the  wax,  induced  him  soon  after  to  relinquish  his  profession.  He  be- 
came a  merchant,  first  in  Boston,  and  afterwEird  in  Baltimore.  The  "  Airs  of 
Palestine,"  which  he  published  in  Baltimore,  in  1816,  was  well  received,  and 
twice  reprinted  in  the  course  of  the  following  year.  In  1819  he  was  ordained 
minister  of  the  Hollis-street  Unitarian  Church,  in  Boston.  He  passed  a  portion 
of  the  years  1835-6  in  Europe,  and  in  1840  published  a  choice  edition  of  his 
poems.  At  different  periods,  he  also  published  several  very  able  discourses.  In 
1851  he  delivered  a  poem  of  considerable  length  at  the  centennial  celebration  in 
Litchfield.  He  has  written  in  almost  every  meter,  and  many  of  his  poems  are 
remarkably  elevated,  spirited,  and  melodious. 

> First  (fSrst).— 'Staffed  (stdft). 


T 


NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 


77.  Glory. 

HE  crumbling  tombstone  and  the  gorgeous  mausole'um/  the 
-1-  sculptured  marble,  and  the  venerable  cathedral,  ah  bear  wit- 
ness to  the  instinctive  desire  within  us  to  be  remembered  by 
coming  generations.  But  how  short-lived  is  the  immortality 
which  the  works  of  our  hands  can  confer !  The  noblest  monu- 
ments of  art  that  the  world  has  ever  seen  are  covered  wifh  the 
soil  of  twenty  centuries.  The  works  of  the  age  of  Pericles'  he 
at  the  foot  of  the  Acrop^olis'  in  indiscriminate  ruin.  The  plow- 
share turns  up  the  marble  which  the  hand  of  Phidias^  had  chis- 
eled into  beauty,  and  the  Mussulman  has  folded  his  flock  beneafli 
the  falling  columns  of  the  temple  of  Minerva.* 

2.  But  even  the  works  of  our  hands  too  frequently  survive  the 
memory  of  those  who  have  created  them.  And  were  it  other- 
wise, could  we  thus  carry  down  to  distant  ages  the  recollection 
of  our  existence,  it  were  surely  childish  to  waste  the  energies  of 
an  immortal  spirit  in  the  effort  to  make  it  known  to  other  times, 
that  a  being  whose  name  was  written  wifh  certain  letters  of  the 
alphabet,  once  lived,  and  flourished,  and  died.  Neither  sculp- 
tured marble,  nor  stately  column,  can  reveal  to  other  ages  the 
lineaments  of  the  spirit ;  and  these  alone  can  embalm  our  mem- 
ory in  the  hearts  of  a  grateful  posterity. 

3.  As  the  stranger  stands  beneafli  the  dome  of  St  Paul's,"  or 


*  M3,m  so  Ih'  um,  a  magnificent  tomb  or  monument. — "  Pkriclbs,  the 
greatest  of  Athenian  statesmep,  was  born  soon  after  the  beginning  of 
the  fifth  century  b.  g.  Though  an  able  warrior,  and  constantly  ready 
for  action,  he  preferred  cultivating  the  arts  of  peace.  I'he  public  funds, 
which  he  had  greatly  increased  by  his  management,  were  expended  in 
erecting  magnificent  temples  and  public  buildings,  which  rendered 
Athens  the  wonder  and  admiration  of  Greece.  During  his  administra- 
tion architecture  and  sculpture  attained  a  degree  of  perfection  that  has 
not  since  been  equaled,  and  poetry  reached  the  highest  excellence.  He 
died,  B.  c.  429. — '  A  crfip'  o  lis,  the  citadel  of  Athens,  built  on  a  rock,  and 
accessible  only  on  one  side. — *  Phidias,  a  Greek  sculptor,  and  the  most 
celebrated  of  antiquity,  was  born  at  Athena  about  490  b.  c,  and  died 
432  B.  u. — 'Minerva,  called  Athena  by  the  Greeks,  was  usually  regard- 
ed, in  heathen  mythology,  as  the  goddess  of  wisdom,  knowledge,  and 
art. — •  St.  Paul's,  a  celebrated  church  in  London,  of  great  size.  It  wa8 
>x«un  in  1G75.  and  finished  by  Sir  Christopher  Wren  in  1718. 


GLORY.  263 

treads,  wifli  religious  awe,  the  silent  aisles  of  Westminster  Ab- 
bey,^ the  sentiment,  which  is  breathed  from  every  object  around 
him,  is,  the  utter  emptiness  of  sublunary'^  glory.  The  fine  arts, 
o})edient  to  private  affection  or  public  gratitude,  have  here  em- 
bodied, in  every  form,  the  finest  conceptions  of  which  their  age 
was  capable.  Each  one  of  these  monuments  has  been  watered 
by  the  tears  of  the  widow,  the  orphan,  or  the  patriot. 

4.  But.  generations  have  passed  away,  and  mourners  and 
mourned  have  sunk  together  into  forgetfulness.  The  aged  crone, 
or  the  stnooth-tongued  beadle,  as  now  he  hurries  you  through 
aisles  and  chapel,  utters,  wifli  measured  cadence  and  unmean- 
ing tone,  for  the  thousandth  time,  the  name  and  lineage  of  the 
once  honored  dead ;  and  then  gladly  dismisses  you,  to  repeat 
again  his  well-conned  lesson  to  another  group  of  idle  passers-by. 

5.  Such,  in  its  most  august  form,  is  all  the  immortality  that 
matter  can  confer.  It  is  by  what  we  ourselves  have  done,  and 
not  by  what  others  have  done  for  us,  that  we  shall  be  remem- 
bered by  after  ages.  It  is  by  thought  that  has  aroused  my  in- 
tellect from  its  slumbers,  which  has  "given  luster  to  virtue,  and 
dignity  to  truth,"  or  by  those  examples  which  have  inflamed  my 
soul  wifli  the  love  of  goodness,  and  not  by  means  of  sculptured 
marble,  that  I  hold  communion  with  Shakspeare^  and  Milton, 
with  Johnson*  and  Burke,®  with  Howard^  and  Wilberforce.^ 

Dr.  Wayland. 

*  Westminster  Abbey,  a  church  in  "Westminster,  built  by  Edward  the 
Confessor,  in  1050.  Henry  III.  made  additions  and  rebuilt  a  part  be- 
tween 1220  and  1269.  Many  of  the  most  distinguished  statesman,  war- 
riors, scholars,  and  artists  of  England  lie  buried  here.  Westminster  is 
always  spoken  of  as  a  part  of  London,  although  it  is  under  a  different 
municipal  authority. — '  Sub'  lu  na  ry,  being  under  the  moon  ;  terrestri- 
al ;  earthly. — ^  Shakspeabe,  see  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  348. — *  Milton, 
see  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  528. — *  Johnson,  see  Biographical  Sketch,  p. 
230. — "Burke,  see  note  1,  p.  214. — 'John  Howard,  the  celebrated 
Christian  philanthropist,  was  bom  at  Hackney,  London,  in  1726.  With 
a  view  to  the  amelioration  of  prisoners,  in  1777  he  visited  all  the  pri£- 
ons  of  the  United  Kingdom  ;  and  in  1778,  and  the  four  following  years, 
he  inspected  the  principal  public  prisons  of  Europe.  On  a  second  tour 
of  inquiry,  he  was  seized  with  a  malignant  fever,  of  which  he  died,  at 
Kherson,  a  fortified  town  of  South  Kussia,  and  was  buried  in  a  spot 
marked  by  himself,  about  eight  miles  from  that  place.  A  rude  obelisk, 
erected  over  his  grave,  bears  the  Latin  inscription,  "Vixir  propteb 


264  NATIONAI.   FUTH   KEADER. 

Dr.  Francis  Wayland  was  bom  in  the  city  of  N.  York  on  the  11th  of  Maich, 
1796,  and  in  the  seventeenth  year  of  his  age  he  was  graduated  at  Union  College, 
in  Schenectady.  After  studymg  medicine  for  three  yeeirs,  and  his  admission  to 
practice,  he  entered  the  Theological  Seminary  at  Andover,  which  he  left  at  the 
end  of  a  year,  to  become  a  tutor  in  Union  College.  .In  1821  he  became  pastor  of 
the  First  Bai)tist  Church,  in  Boston,  where  he  continued  five  years.  He  was 
elected  to  the  presidency  of  Brown  University  in  1826,  and  entered  upon  his 
duties  at  Providence  in  1827.  President  Wayland's  first  publication  was  a  ser- 
mon on  the  Moral  Dignity  of  the  Missionary  Enterprise,  delivered  in  Boston,  in 
1823,  which  had  an  extraordinary  success,  passing  through  many  editions,  in 
England  and  this  country.  Very  many  of  his  discourses,  since  that  period,  have 
been  equally  popuiar.  He  has  a.]so  written  numerous  articles  in  the  journals  and 
quarterly  reviews.  His  works  on  Moral  Science^  Political  Economy,  and  In- 
tellectual Philosophy ,  have  deservedly  met  with  great  success.  His  very  in- 
teresting "  Life  of  the  Missionary,  Dr.  Judson,"  appeared  in  1853.  This  able 
thinker  is  equally  popular  as  an  orator  and  a  writer.  Clear,  exact,  and  sesirching 
hi  his  analysis,  he  penetrates  to  the  very  heart  of  his  subject,  and  enunciates  its 
ultimate  principles  in  a  style  of  transparent  clearness,  and  classical  purity  and 
elegance,  and  not  unfrequently  rises  to  strains  of  impassioned  eloquence. 


78.  The  World  for  Sale. 

1.  rriHE  WORLD  FOR  SALE '.—Hang  out  the  sign ; 
J-   Call  every  traveler  here  to  me  : 

Who'll  buy  this  brave  estate  of  mine, 

And  set  me  from  earth's  bondage  free  ? — 

'Tis  going ! — yes,  I  mean  to  fling 
The  bauble  from  my  soul  away ; 

I'll  sell  it,  whatsoe'er  it  bring ; — 
The  World  at  Auction  here  to-day  I 

2.  It  is  a  glorious  thing  to  see, — 

Ah,  it  has  cheated  me  so  sore ! 
It  is  not  what  it  seems  to  be : 

For  sale !     It  shall  be  mine  no  more. 
Come,  turn  it  o'er  and  view  it  well ; — 

I  would  not  have  you  purchase  dear  : 
'Tis  going  I  going  ! — I  must  sell ! 

Who  bids  ?— Who'll  buy  the  splendid  Tear  ? 


ALIOS," — ^he  lived  for  the  good  of  others. — "  "William  "Wilberfokci,  at 
distinguished  British  statesman,  author,  and  Christian  philanthropist, 
was  bom  at  Hull,  in  1769,  and  died  July  28,  1833. 


THE    WOKLD    FOB.    BALL.  265 

3.  Here's  Wealth  in  glittering  heaps,  of  gold ; — 

Who  bids  ? — But  let  me  tell  you  fkir,    . 
A  baser  lot  was  never  sold ; — 

Who'll  buy  the  heavy  heaps  of  care  ? 
And  here,  spread  out  in  broad  domain, 

A  goodly  landscape  all  may  trace ; 
Hall,  cottage,  tree,  field,  hill,  and  plain ; — 

Who'll  buy  himself  a  burial-place ! 

4.  Here's  Love,  the  dreamy  potent  spell 

That  beauty  flings  around  the  heart ; 
I  know  its  power,  alas !  too  well ; — 

'Tis  going., — Love  and  I  must  part ! 
Must  part  ? — What  can  I  more  wifli  Love  I — 

All  over  the  enchanter's  reign ; 
Who'll  buy  the  plumeless,  dying  dove, — 

An  hour  of  bliss, — an  age  of  pain ! 

5.  And  Friendship, — rarest  gem  of  earth, — 

(Who  e'er  hath  found  the  jewel  his  ?) 
Frail,  fickle,  false,  and  little  worth, — 

Who  bids  for  Friendship — as  it  is ! 
*Tis  going  !  going  ! — Hear  the  call : 

Once,  twice,  and  thrice  ! — 'tis  v§ry  low  1 
'Twas  once  my  hope,  my  stay,  my  all, — 

But  now  the  broken  stafi"  must  go ! 

6    Fame  !  hold  the  brilliant  meteor  high ; 

How  dazzling  every  gilded  name ! 
Ve  millions,  now's  the  time  to  buy ! 

How  much  for  Fame  ? — How  much  for  Fame  ? 
Hear  how  it  thunders ! — Would  you  stand 

On  high  Olympus,'  far  renown'd, — 
Now  purchase,  and  a  world  command  ! — 

And  be  with  a  world's  curses  crown'd ! 


'  Olympus,  a  mountain  range  of  Thessaly,  on  the  border  of  Macedo- 
nia. Its  summit,  ftimed  by  Homer  and  other  poets  as  the  throne  of  the 
god£,  is  estimated  to  be  9,745  feet  high. 

12 


2fje  NATIONAL   FIFTH    READEB. 

7.  Sweet  star  of  Hope  !  wifli  ray  to  shine 

In  every  sad  foreboding  breast, 
Save  this  desponding  one  of  mine, — 

Who  bids  for  man's  last  fiiend  and  best ! 
Ah !  were  not  mine  a  bankrupt  life. 

This  treasure  should  my  soul  sustain ; 
But  Hope  and  I  are  now  at  strife, 

Nor  ever  may  unite  again. 

8.  And  Song  !     For  sale  my  tuneless  lute; 

Sweet  solace,  mine  no  more  to  hold ; 
The  chords  that  charm'd  my  soul  are  mute, 

I  can  not  wake  the  notes  of  old ! 
Or  e'en  were  mine  a  wizard  shell, 

Could  chain  a  world  in  rapture  high ; 
Yet  now  a  sad  farewell ! — farewell ! 

Must  on  its  last  faint  echoes  die. 

9.  Ambition,  fashion,  show,  and  pride, — 

I  part  from  all  forever  now ; 
Grief,  in  an  overwhelming  tide. 

Has  taught  my  haughty  heart  to  bow. 
Poor  heart !  distracted,  ah,  so  long, — 

And  still  its  aching  throb  to  bear ; — 
How  broken,  that  was  once  so  strong ! 

How  heavy,  once  so  free  from  care  I 

10.  No  more  for  me  life's  fitful  dream ; — 

Bright  vision,  vanishing  away ! 
My  bark  requires  a  deeper  stream  ; 

My  sinking  soul  a  surer  stay. 
By  Death,  stern  sheriff !  all  bereft, 

I  weep,  yet  humbly  kiss  the  rod ; 
The  best  of  all  I  still  heifre  loft,— 

My  Faith,  my  Bible,  and  my  G6d.         Ralph  Hcrr. 

tiEV.  Ralph  IIoyt  is  a  clergyman  of  the  Protestant  Episcopal  Church  in  NciV 
Vork.  He  is  a  native  of  the  city.  After  passing  seveial  years  as  a  teacher,  an«i 
a  writer  for  the  gazettes,  he  studied  theology,  and  took  orders  in  the  church  in 
1842.  Mr.  IIoYT  may  have  written  much,  but  he  lias  acknowledged  little 
"The  Chant  of  Life  and  other  Poems,"  appeared  in  1844,  and  the  second  por- 
tion of  the  satne,  in  1845.    These  works  are  principally  occuj  Vm\  with  paesaec* 


V\rESTMtNSTKli    ABBICY.  267 

Of  personal  sentiment  an,l  reflection.  His  pieces,  entitled  "Snow,"  "Tlie 
World  for  Sale,"  "  New,"  and  "  Old,"  have  attracted  considerable  attention, 
and  become  popular.  A  simple,  natural  current  of  feeling  runs  through  them*, 
tlie  versification  grows  out  of  the  subject,  and  the  whole  clings  to  us  as  some- 
thing  written  from  the  heart  of  the  author.  He  has  latterly  resided  at  a  cottage 
pleasantly  situated  on  the  high  ground  in  the  rear  ol  the  Pedisades,  at  the  vil- 
lage cf  Fort  Lee,  New  Jersey,  opposite  New  York. 


79.   Westminster  Abbey. 

IN  one  of  those  sober  and  rather  melancholy  days,  in  the  lal 
ter  part  of  autumn,  when  the  shadows  of  morning  and  even- 
ing almost  mingle  together,  and  throw  a  gloom  over  the  decline 
of  the  year,  I  passed  several  hours  in  rambling  about  West- 
minster Abbey.'  There  was  something  congenial  to  the  season 
in  the  mournful  magnificence  of  the  old  pile ;  and,  as  I  passed 
its  threshold,  it  seemed  like  stepping  back  into  the  region  of  an- 
tiquity, and  losing  myself  among  the  shades  of  former  ages. 

2.  I  entered  from  the  inner  court  of  Westminster  school,* 
through  a  long,  low,  vaulted  passage,  that  had  an  almost  subter- 
ranean look,  and  pursued  my  walk  to  an  arched  door,  opening 
to  the  interior  of  the  Abbey.  On  entering  here,  the  magnitude 
of  the  building  breaks  fully  upon  the  mind,  contrasted  wifli  the 
vaults  of  the  cloisters.  The  eye  gazes  with  wonder  at  clustered 
columns  of  gigantic  dimensions,  with  arches  springing  from 
them  to  such  an  amazinoj  heio-ht:  and  man  wanderins:  about 
their  bases,  shrinks  into  insignificance  in  comparison  with  his 
own  handiwork. 

3.  It  seems  as  if  the  awful  nature  of  the  place  presses  down 
upon  the  soul,  and  hushes  the  beholder  into  noiseless  reverence. 
We  feel  that  we  are  surrounded  by  the  congregated  bones  of 
the  great  men  of  past  times,  who  have  filled  history  wifli  their 
vleeds,  and  the  earth  with  their  renown.  And  ygt  it  ahnost 
provokes  a  smile  at  the  vanity  of  human  ambition,  to  see  how 

*yee  note  1,  p.  263. — "Westminster  school  is  situated  within  the 
walls  of  the  Abbey.  It  was  founded  by  Queen  Elizabeth  for  forty  boys, 
denominated  the  Queen's  scholars.  Many  of  the  nobility  and  gentry 
send  their  boys  also  for  instructj  m,  so  that  this  institution  stands  in 
the  highest  repute,  and  vies  with  the  celebrated  sch(H>l  at  I^aton. 


268  NATIONAL   FIFlll    EEADEJB. 

they  arc  crowded  together  and  jostled  in  tbe  dust;  what  parsi- 
mony is  observed  in  doling  out  a  scanty  nook,  a  gloomy  corner, 
a  little  portion  of  earth,  to  those  whom,  when  alive,  kingdoms 
could  not  satisfy ;  and  how  many  shapes,  and  forms,  and  artifices 
are  devised  to  catch  the  casual  notice  of  the  passenger,  and  save 
from  forggtfulness,  for  a  few  short  years,  a  name  which  once 
Bspircd  to  occupy  ages  of  the  world's  thought  and  admiration. 

4.  I  passed  some  time  in  Poet's  Corner,  which  occupies  an 
end  of  one  of  the  transepts  or  cross  aisles  of  the  Abbey.  The 
monuments  are  generally  simple ;  for  the  lives  of  literary  men 
afford  no  striking  theme  for  the  sculptor.  Shakspeare'  and 
Addison'  have  statues  erected  to  their  memories;  but  the 
greater  part  have  busts,  medallions,  and  sometimes  mere  in- 
scriptions. 

5.  Notwithstanding  the  simplicity  of  these  memorials,  I  have 
always  observed  that  the  visitors  to  the  Abbey  remain  longest 
about  them.  A  kinder  and  fonder  feeling  takes  place  of  the 
cold  curiosity  or  vague  admiration,  wifh  which  they  gaze  on  the 
splendid  monuments  of  the  great  and  heroic.  They  linger 
about  these  as  about  the  tombs  of  friends  and  companions ;  for 
there  is  something  of  companionship  between  the  author  and 
the  reader.  Well  may  posterity  be  grateful  to  his  memory ;  for 
he  has  left  it  an  inheritance,  not  of  empty  names  and  sounding 
actions,  but  whole  treasures  of  wisdom,  bright  gems  of  thought, 
and  golden  veins  of  language. 

C.  I  entered  that  part  of  the  Abbey  which  contains  the  sep 
ulchers  of  the  kings.  I  wandered  among  what  were  once 
chapels,  but  which  are  now  occupied  by  the  tombs  and  monu- 
ments of  the  great.  At  every  turn  I  met  wifh  some  illustrious 
name,  or  the  cognizance'  of  some  powerful  house,  renowned  in 
history. 

7.  As  the  eye  darts  into  these  dusky  chambers  of  death,  it 
catches  glimpses  of  quaint  effigies:  some  kneeling  in  niches,  as 
if  in  devotion ;  otiiers  stretched  upon  tombs,  wifh  hands  piously 
pressed  together :  warriors  in  armor,  as  if  reposing  after  battle ; 


'  SiiAKSPEARK,  see  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  848. — *  Addison,  see  Bio- 
graphical Skotch,  p.  513. — '  C&g' ni /ince,  knowleilge  or  notice;  juri* 
dittion  :  arkncw'edginoTjt,  as  of  a  fine. 


WESTMINSTEK   ABBEY.  269 

prelates,  with  crosiers  and  mitres ;  and  nobles  in  robes  and  cor- 
onets, lying  as  it  were  in  state.  In  glancing  over  this  scene,  so 
strangely  populous,  yet  where  every  form  is  so  still  and  silent,  il 
seems  almost  as  if  we  were  treading  a  mansion  of  that  fabled 
city,  where  every  being  had  been  suddenly  transmuted  into 
stone. 

8.  In  the  opposite  transept  to  Poet's  Corner,  stands  a  monu 
ment  which  is  one  of  the  most  renowned  achievements  of  modern 
art;  but  which,  to  me,  appears  horrible,  rather  than  sublime 
It  is  the  tomb  of  Mrs.  Nightingale,  by  Roubilliac'  The  bottom 
of  the  monument  is  represented  as  throwing  open  its  marble 
doors,  and  a  sheeted  skeleton  is  starting  forth.  The  shroud  is 
falling  from  his  fleshless  frame  as  he  launches  his  dart  at  his  vic- 
tim. She  is  sinking  into  her  affrighted  husband's  arms,  who 
strives,  with  vain  and  frantic  effort,  to  avert  the  blow. 

9.  The  whole  is  executed  w4fh  terrible  truth  and  spirit.  We 
almost  fancy  we  hear  the  gibbering  yell  of  triumph,  bursting 
from  the  distorted  jaws  of  the  specter.  But  why  should  we 
thus  seek  to  clothe  death  with  unnecessary  terrors,  and  to  spread 
horrors  around  the  tomb  of  those  we  love  ?  The  grave  should 
be  surrounded  by  every  thing  that  might  inspire  tenderness  and 
veneration  for  the  dead,  or  that  might  win  the  living  to  virtue. 
It  is  the  place,  not  of  distrust  and  dismay,  but  of  sorrow  and 
meditation. 


80.   Westminster  Abbey — concluded. 

TWO  small  aisles  on  each  side  of  one  of  the  chapels  present  a 
touching  instance  of  the  equality  of  the  grave.     In  one  is 
the  sepulcher  of  the  haughty  Elizabeth ;'  in  the  other  is  that  of 

*  Louis  Francis  Eoubilliac,  an  eminent  Frencli  sculptor,  born  at 
Lyons,  but  came  to  England  in  the  reign  of  George  I.,  and  was  employ- 
ed on  many  great  works,  in  various  parts  of  the  kingdom  ;  among 
which  are,  the  statue  of  the  Duke  of  Argyle,  in  Westminster  Abbey ; 
the  statue  of  Handel,  at  Vauxhall ;  and  that  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  at 
Trinity  College,  Cambridge.  He  stood  at  the  head  of  his  profession, 
and  also  had  a  talent  for  poetry.  Died,  1762. — 'Elizabeth,  queen  of 
England  from  1558  to  1603. 


270  NATIONAL   FIFTH   READEK. 

her  victim,  the  lovely  and  unfortunate  Mary.'  Not  an  hour  in 
the  day,  but  some  ejaculation  of  pity  is  uttered  over  the  fate  of 
the  latter,  mingled  with  indignation  at  her  oppressor.  The 
walls  of  Elizabeth's  sepulcher  continually  echo  with  the  sighs  of 
sympathy,  heaved  at  the  grave  of  her  rival. 

2.  A  peculiar  melancholy  reigns  over  the  place  whore  Mary 
lies  buried.  The  light  struggles  dimly  through  windows,  dark- 
ened by  dust.  The  greater  part  of  the  place  is  in  deep  shadow, 
and  the  walls  are  stained  and  tinted  by  time  and  weather.  A 
marble  figure  of  Mary  is  stretched  upon  the  tomb,  around  which 
is  an  iron  railing,  much  corroded,  bearing  her  national  emblem, 
the  thistle.  I  was  weary  wifli  wandering,  and  sat  down  to  rest 
myself  by  the  monument,  revolving  in  my  mind  the  checkered 
and  disastrous  story  of  poor  Mary. 

3.  The  sound  of  casual  footsteps  had  ceased  from  the  Abbey. 
I  could  only  hear,  now  and  then,  the  distant  voice  of  the  priest, 
repeating  the  evening  service,  and  the  faint  responses  of  the 
choir.  These  paused  for  a  time,  and  all  was  hushed.  Suddenly, 
the  notes  of  the  deep-laboring  organ  burst  upon  the  car,  tailing 
wifh  doubled  and  redoubled  intensity,  and  rolling,  as  it  were, 
hurra  billows  of  sound.  How  well  do  their  volume  and  srnmdcur 
accord  with  this  mighty  building !  With  what  pomp  do  they 
swell  through  its  vast  vaults,  and  breathe  their  awful  harmony 
through  these  caves  of  death,  and  make  the  silent  sepulcher 
vocal !  And  now,  they  rise  in  triumphant  acclamation,  heaving 
higher  and  higher  their  accordant  notes,  and  piling  sound  on 
sound. 

4.  And  now,  they  pause,  and  the  soft  voices  of  the  choir  break 
out  into  sweet  gushes  of  melody ;  they  soar  aloft  and  warble 
along  the  roof,  and  seem  to  play  about  these  lofty  vaults  like  the 
pure  airs  of  heaven.  Again,  the  pealing  organ  heaves  its  thrill- 
ing thunders,  compressing  air  into  music,  and  rolling  it  forth 
upon  the  soul.  What  long-drawn  cadences!  What  solemn, 
sweeping  concords !     It  grows  more  and  more  dense  and  pow- 


*  Mary,  queen  of  Scots,  the  cousin  in  the  fourth  degree  of  Elizabetli, 
■was  born  in  1542.  After  the  latter  had  retained  her  in  captivity  for 
nineteen  years,  she  was  beheaded  for  treason  on  the  8th  of  February, 
1587. 


WESTMINSTER    ABBEY.  271 

erful ;  it  fillti  the  va  i  pile,  and  seemi  to  jar  the  very  walls ;  the 
ear  is  stunned ;  the  senses  are  overwhelmed.  And  now,  it  is 
winding  up  in  full  jubilee ;  it  is  rising  from  earth  to  heaven ; 
the  very  soul  seems  rapt  away,  and  floating  upward  on  this 
swelling  note  of  harmony  ! 

5.  I  sat  for  some  time  lost  in  that  kind  of  reverie  which  a 
Btrain  of  music  is  apt  sometimes  to  inspire.  The  shadows  of 
evening  were  gradually  thickening  around  me ;  the  monuments 
began  to  cast  a  deeper  and  deeper  gloom ;  and  the  distant  clock 
gave  token  of  the  slowly  waning  day.  I  rose,  and  retraced  my 
morning's  walk,  and  as  I  passed  out  at  the  portal  of  the  cloisters, 
the  door  closing  with  a  jarring  noise  behind  me,  filled  the  whole 
building  with  echoes. 

6.  I  endeavored  to  form  some  arrangement  in  my  mind  of  the 
objects  I  had  been  contem 'plating,  but  found  they  were  already 
passing  into  indistinctness  and  confusion.  What,  thought  I,  is 
this  vast  assemblage  of  sepulchers  but  a  treasury  of  humiliation ; 
a  huge  pile  of  reiterated  homilies  on  the  emptiness  of  renown, 
and  the  certainty  of  oblivion?  It  is,  indeed,  the  empire  of 
Death ;  his  great  and  shadowy  palace ;  where  he  sits  in  state, 
mocking  at  the  relics  of  human  glory,  and  spreading  dust  and 
forgetfulness  on  the  monuments  of  princes. 

v.  How  idle  a  boast,  after  all,  is  the  immortality  of  a  name ! 
Time  is  ever  silently  turning  over  his  pages.  We  are  too  much 
engrossed  by  the  story  of  the  present  to  think  of  the  character 
and  anecdotes  that  gave  interest  to  the  past ;  and  each  age  is  a 
volume  thrown  aMde  to  be  speedily  forgotten.  The  idol  of  to- 
day pushes  the  hero  of  yesterday  out  of  our  recollection ;  and 
will,  in  turn,  be  supplanted  by  his  successor  of  to-morrow. 

8.  What  then  is  to  insure  this  pile,  which  now  towers  above 
me,  from  sharing  the  fate  of  mightier  mausole'ums?  The  time 
must  come,  when  its  gilded  vaults,  which  now  spring  so  loftily, 
shall  lie  in  rubbish  beneath  the  feet ;  when,  instead  of  the  sound 
of  melody  and  praise,  the  wnnd  shall  whistle  through  the  broken 
arches,  and  the  owl  hoot  from  the  shattered  tower ;  when  the 
gairish'  sunbeam  shall  break  into  these  gloomy  mansions  of 
death ;  and  the  ivy  twine  around  the  fallen  columns ;  and  the 

*  Oiiv'  Uh,  gaudy  ;  showy  ;  very  fine. 


272  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

fox-glove  hang  its  blossoms  about  the  nameless  urn,  as  if  in 
mockery  of  the  dead.  Thus  man  passes  away ;  his  name  par- 
ishes from  record  and  from  recollection:  his  history  is  a  tale 
that  is  told,  and  his  very  monument  lecomes  a  ruin.' 

WASIIlNOTOSr  IbVINQ.' 


81.   A  Great  Man  Departed. 

1.  npUERE  was  a  festive  hall  with  mirth  resounding; 
J-   Beauty  and  wit,  and  friendliness  surrounding ; 
With  minstrelsy  above,  and  dancing  feet  rebounding. 

2.  And  at  the  height  came  news,  that  held  suspended 
The  sparkling  glass ! — till  slow  the  hand  descended — 

And  ruddy  cheeks  grew  pale — and  all  the  mirth  was  ended. 

3.  Beneath  a  sunny  sky,  'twas  heard  wifh  wonder, — 
A  flash  had  cleft  a  lofty  tree  tree  asunder, 

Without  a  previous  cloud,  and  with  no  rolling  thunder. 

4.  Strong  was  the  stem — its  boughs  above  all  'thralling— 
And  in  its  roots  and  sap  no  cankers  galling — 

Prosperity  was  perfect,  while  Death's  hand  was  falling. 

6.       Man's  body  is  less  safe  than  any  tree ; 
We  build  our  ship  in  strong  security — 
A  Finger,  from  the  dark,  points  to  the  trembling  sea. 

6.  Alan,  like  his  knowledge,  and  his  soul's  endeavor, 
Is  framed  for  no  fix'd  altitude ;  but  ever 

Moves  onward :  the  first  pause,  returns  all  to  the  Giver. 

7.  Riches  and  health,  fine  taste,  all  means  of  pleasure ; 
Success  in  highest  efforts — fiunc's  best  treasure — 

All   these   were    thine, — o'ertopp'd — and    overwe'gh'd    the 
measure. 

8.  But  in  recording  tlius  life's  night-shade  warning. 

We  hold  the  memory  of  thy  kind  heart's  morning : — 
Man's  intellect  is  not  man's  sole  noi  best  adorning. 

IIOUSEIIOLD  WoEDe. 
*ll'im  (r6' in). —  t>ee  BiograpbiciU  Sketch   p.  114 


DANIEL   WEBSTEB.  273 


82.  Daniel  Webstek.^ 

BOllN  upon  the  verge  of  civilization, — his  father's  house  the 
furthest  by  four  miles  on  the  Indian  trail  to  Canada, — Mr. 
Webster  retained  to  the  last  his  love  for  that  pure  fresh  nature 
in  which  he  was  cradled.  The  dashing  streams,  which  conduct 
the  waters  of  the  queen  of  New  Hampshire's  lakes^  to  the  noble 
Marrimac ;  the  superb  group  of  mountains^  (the  Switzerland  of 
the  United  States),  among  which  those  waters  have  their  sources; 
the  primeval  forest,  whose  date  runs  back  to  the  twelfth  verse  of 
the  first  chapter  of  Genesis,''  and  never  since  creiition  yielded  t, 
the  settler's  ax ;  the  gray  buttresses  of  granite  which  prop  the 
eternal  hills ;  the  sacred  alternation  of  the  seasons,  with  its  ma- 
gic play  on  field  and  forest  and  flood ;  the  gleaming  surface  of 
lake  and  stream  in  summer;  the  icy  pavement  with  which  they 
are  floored  in  winter ;  the  verdure  of  spring,  the  prismatic  tints 
of  the  autumnal  woods,  the  leafless  branches  of  December,  glit- 
tering like  arches  and  corridors  of  silver  and  crystal  in  the  en- 
chanted palaces  of  fairy-land — sparkling  in  the  morning  sun 
with  winter's  jewelry,  diamond  and  amethyst,  and  ruby  and 
sapphire ;  the  cathedral  aisles  of  pathless  woods, — the  mournful 
hemlock,  the  "  cloud-seeking"  pine, — hung  with  drooping  creep- 
ers, like  funeral  banners  pendant  from  the  roof  of  chancel  or 
transept  over  the  graves  of  the  old  lords  of  the  soil ; — these  all 
retained  for  him  to  the  close  of  his  life  an  undying  charm. 

2.  But  though  he  ever  clung  with  fondness  to  the  wild  moun- 
tain scenery  amidst  which  he  was  born  and  passed  his  youth,  he 
loved  nature  in  all  her  other  aspects.  The  simple  beauty  to 
w^hich  he  had  brought  his  farm  at  Marshfield,*  its  approaches, 
its  grassy  lawns,  its  well-disposed  plantations  on  the  hill-sides, 
unpretending  but  tasteful,  and  forming  a  pleasing  interchange 

*  Extract  from  a  speech  at  the  Revere  House,  Boston,  January  18th, 
18o6,  in  commemoration  of  the  74th  anniversary  of  Mr.  Webster's 
birth-day. — 'Queen  of  New  Hampshire's  hikes,  Winnipiseogee. — '  Moun- 
tains, the  White  Mountains,  of  which  Mount  Washington  is  the  princi- 
pal summit. — *  *'  And  the  earth  brouglvt  forth  grass,  and  herb  yielding 
seed  after  his  kind,  and  the  tree  yielding  fruit,  whose  seed  was  in  itself, 
after  his  kind. — '  M^rsh'  field,  a  village  on  Massachusetts  Bay.  28  railef 
S.  E.  by  S.  of  Boston. 


^74  NATIONAL   FaTH    BEADEK. 

ivitli  its  l.irj^e  corn-fields  and  turnip  patches,  showed  his  sensi- 
bility to  tlio  milder  beauties  of  civilized  culture. 

3.  He  understood,  no  one  better,  the  secret  sympathy  of  na- 
ture and  art,  and  often  conversed  on  the  principles  which  govern 
their  rchitions  with  each  other.  He  appreciated  the  infinite 
bounty  with  which  nature  furnishes  materiaJs  to  the  artistic  pow- 
ers of  man,  at  once  her  servant  and  master;  and  he  knew  not 
less  that  the  highest  exercise  of  art  is  but  to  imitate,  interpret, 
select,  and  combine  the  properties,  afiinities,  and  proportions  of 
nature ;  t  lat  in  reality  they  are  parts  of  one  great  system ;  for 
nature  is  the  Divine  Creator's  art,  and  art  is  rational  man's 
creation. 

4.  But  not  less  than  mountain  and  plain  he  loved  the  sea. 
He  loved  to  walk  and  ride  and  drive  upon  that  magnificent 
beach  which  stretches  from  Green  Harbor'  all  round  to  the 
Gurnet.  He  loved  to  pass  hours,  I  may  say  days,  in  his  little 
boat.  He  loved  to  breathe  the  healthful  air  of  the  salt  water. 
He  loved  the  music  of  the  ocean,  through  all  the  mighty  octaves 
deep  and  high  of  its  far-resounding  register ;  from  the  lazy  plash 
of  a  midsummer's  ripple  upon  the  margin  of  some  oozy  creek  to 
the  sharp  howl  of  the  tempest,  v.'hich  wrenches  a  light-house 
from  its  clamps  and  bolts,  fathoms  deep  in  the  living  rock,  as 
easily  as  a  gardener  pulls  a  weed  from  his  flower-border. 

5.  There  was,  in  fact,  a  manifest  sympathy  between  his  great 
mind  and  this  world-surrounding,  deep-heaving,  measureless,  ev- 
erlasting, infinite  deep.  His  thoughts  and  conversation  often 
turned  upon  it,  and  its  great  organic  relations  wifli  other  parts 
of  nature  and  with  man.  I  have  heard  him  allude  to  the  mys- 
terious analogy  between  the  circulation  carried  on  by  veins  and 
arteries,  heart  and  lungs,  and  the  wonderful  interchange  of  ve- 
nous and  arterial  blood,^ — that  miraculous  complication  which 

'  Green  Harbor  is  the  name  of  a  small  creek  on  the  sea-shore  of  Marsh- 
field,  and  the  Gurnet  is  a  projection  or  point  on  which  the  Pljinouth 
light-houses  are  erected.  Tlie  distance  between  Green  Harbor  and  the 
Gurnet  is  between  foiir  and  five  miles. — "  "  Venous  and  arterial  blood." 
The  venous  blood  is  tliat  which  runs  in  the  small  veins  ;  the  arterial 
blood  runs  in  the  large  veins,  called  arteries.  The  arteries  rise  from 
the  heart  and  convey  the  blood  to  all  parts  of  the  body  ,  the  veins  re- 
turn it  to  the  heart.      The  l»l(>od  in  the  arteries  is  u  pure,  red  blood 


1>ANIEL    WEBSTER.  275 

lies  fit  tlic  l)Msis  of  animal  life, — and  that  equally  corapJcated 
and  more  stupendous  circulation  of  river,  ocean,  vapor,  and  rain, 
wliicli  from  the  fresh  currents  of  the  rivers  fills  the  depths  of 
the  salt  sea;  then  by  vaporous  distillation  carries  the  waters 
which  are  under  the  firmament  up  to  the  cloudy  cisterns  of  the 
waters  above  the  firmament ;  wafts  them  on  the  dripping  wings 
of  the  wind  against  the  mountain  sides,  precipitates  them  to  the 
earth  in  the  form  of  rain,  and  leads  them  again  through  a  thou- 
sand 3hannels,  open  and  secret,  to  the  beds  of  the  rivers,  and  so 
back  to  the  sea. 


83.  Daniel  Webster — concluded. 

WERE  I  to  fix  upon  any  one  trait  as  the  prominent  trait  of 
Mr.  Webster's  personal  character,  it  would  be  his  social 
disposition,  his  loving  heart.  If  there  ever  was  a  person  who 
felt  all  the  meaning  of  the  divine  utterance,  "it  is  not  good  that 
man  should  be  alone,'"  it  was  he.  Notwithstanding  th-e  vast  re- 
sources of  his  own  mind,  and  the  materials  for  self-communion 
laid  up  in  the  storehouse  of  such  an  intellect,  few  men  whom  I 
have  known  have  been  so  little  addicted  to  solitary  and  medita- 
tive introspection  f  to  few  have  social  intercourse,  sympathy,  and 
communion  with  kindred  or  friendly  spirits  been  so  grateful  and 
oxen  necessary. 

2.  He  loved  to  live  wifli  his  friends,  with  "good,  pleasant 
men  who  loved  him."  This  was  his  delight,  alike  when  op- 
pressed with  the  multiplied  cares  of  oflice  at  Washington,  and 
when  enjoying  the  repose  and  quiet  of  Marshfield.  He  loved  to 
meet  his  friends  at  the  social  board,  because  it  is  there  that  men 
most  ca-st  off  the  burden  of  business  and  thought ;  there,  as  Ci- 
cero'says,  that  conversation  is  sweetest;  there  that  the  kindly 
affections  have  the  fullest  play. 

3.  By  the  social  sympathies  thus  cultivated,  the  geniiil  con- 
sciousness of  individual  existence  becomes  more  intense.     And 

the  venous  olood  is  more  or  less  loaded  with  impurities,  and  deprived 
of  some  of  its  valuable  properties,  which  cause  the  bluish  hue  of  the 
veins,  especially  in  old  persons. — *  See  Genesis,  chap,  ii.,  v,  18. — '  In  tro- 
spftc'tion,  a  view  ->f  the  inside. — "Cicebo,  see  p.  148,  note  4. 


27G  NATIONAL    FlVni    READER. 

wbo  that  over  enjoyed  it  can  forg&t  the  charm  of  his  hospitality 
so  liberal,  so  choice,  so  thoughtful  ?  In  the  vtM-y  hist  days  of 
his  life,  and  when  confined  to  the  couch  from  which  he  nevei 
rose,  he  continued  to  give  minute  directions  for  the  hospitable 
entertainment  of  the  anxious  and  sorrowful  friends  who  came  to 
Marshfield. 

4.  If  he  enjoyed  society  himself,  how  much  he  contributed  to 
:ts  enjoyment  in  others!  His  colloquial  powers  were,  I  think, 
quite  equal  to  his  parliamentary  and  forensic  talent.  He  had 
iomething  instructive  or  ingenious  to  say  on  the  most  familiar 
occasion.  In  his  playful  mood  he  was  not  afraid  to  trifle ;  but 
ne  never  prosed,  never  indulged  in  common-place,  never  dog- 
matized, was  never  affected.  His  range  of  information  was  so 
vast,  his  observation  so  acute  and  accurate,  his  tact  in  separating 
the  important  from  the  unessential  so  nice,  his  memory  so  re- 
tentive, his  command  of  language  so  great,  that  his  common 
table-talk,  if  taken  down  from  his  lips,  would  have  stood  the  test 
of  publication. 

5.  He  had  a  keen  sense  of  the  ludicrous,  and  repeated  or 
listened  to  a  humorous  anecdote  with  infinite  glee.  He  narrated 
with  unsurpassed  clearness,  brevity,  and  grace, — no  tedious,  un- 
necessary details  to  spin  out  the  story,  the  fault  of  most  pro- 
fessed raconteurs,^ — but  its  main  points  set  each  in  its  place,  so 
as  often  to  make  a  little  dinner-table  epic,  but  all  naturally  and 
without  eff'ort.  He  delighted  in  anecdotes  of  eminent  men,  es- 
Decially  of  eminent  Americans,  and  his  memory  was  stored 
with  them.  He  would  sometimes  briefly  discuss  a  question 
in  ratural  history,  relative,  for  instance,  to  climate,  or  the  races 
and  h.ibits  and  breeds  of  the  diff'erent  domestic  animals,  or  the 
various  kinds  of  our  native  game,  for  he  knew  the  secrets  of  the 
forest. 

6.  He  delighted  to  treat  a  topic  drawn  from  life,  manner, 
)d  tin-  i.reat  industrial  pursuits  of  the  community;  and  he  did 

iti  wifh  sii."-h  spirit  and  originality  as  tc  throw  a  charm  around 
..ubjects  N^hich,  in  common  hands,  are  trivial  and  uninviting. 
Nor  were  the  stores  of  our  sterling  literature  less  at  his  command. 
Ho  had  srch  an  acquaintance  with  the  great  writers  of  our  Ian- 


*  Ri  c^n'  teur,  a  relator  or  teller  of  storiea. 


FEOM    A    niSTOllICAL    ADDliKSS.  277 

guage,  especially  the  historians  and  poets,  as  enabled  him  to  en- 
rich his  conversation  with  the  most  apposite  allusions  and  illus- 
trations. When  the  occasion  and  character  of  the  company 
invited  it,  his  conversation  turned  on  higher  themes,  and  scine- 
times  rose  to  the  moral  sublime. 

7.  He  was  not  fond  of  the  technical  language  of  metaphysics, 
but  he  had  grappled,  like  the  giant  he  was,  with  its  most  formi- 
dable problems.  Dr.  Johnson'  was  wont  to  say  of  Burke,*  that 
a  stranger  who  should  chance  to  meet  him  under  a  shed  in  a 
shower  of  rain,  would  say,  "  This  was  an  extraordinary  man." 
A  stranger  who  did  not  know  Mr.  Webster,  might  have  pass**:*, 
a  day  with  him,  in  his  seasons  of  relaxation,  without  detecting 
the  jurist  or  the  statesman ;  but  he  could  not  pass  a  half  hour 
with  him  without  coming  to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  one  of 
the  best  informed  of  men. 

8.  His  personal  appearance  contributed  to  the  attraction  of 
bis  social  intercourse.  His  countenance,  frame,  expression,  and 
presence,  arrested  and  fixed  attention.  You  could  not  pass  him 
unnoticed  in  a  crowd ;  nor  fail  to  observe  in  him  a  man  of  high 
mark  and  character.  No  one  could  see  him  and  not  wish  to 
sne  more  of  him,  and  this  alike  in  public  and  private. 

Edward  Everett.' 


84.  Fkom  a  Historical  Address.* 

UNBORN  ages  and  visions  of  glory  crowd  upon  my  soul,  the 
realization  of  all  which,  however,  is  in  the  hands  and  good 
pleasure  of  Almiglity  God ;  but,  under  his  divine  blessing,  it  will 
be  dependent  on  the  character  and  the  virtues  of  ourselves,  and 
of  our  posterity.  If  classical  history  has  been  found  to  be,  ia 
now,  and  shall  continue  to  be,  the  concomitant*  of  free  institu- 
ticns,   and   of  popular  eloquence,  what  a  field  is  opening  to 

*  Dr.  Johnson,  see  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  230.—'  Bitikb,  see  p.  214, 
note  1. — 'See  Biographical  Sl^etch,  p.  81.— *  Delivered  before  the  New 
York  Historical  Society,  February  23,  1852.— •  Con  c6in'  i  taut,  au  at 
teudaut ;  that  which  accompanies. 


2TS  NAlltiA'AL    FIl'Tll     KKADLK. 

ns  for  aiioilier   llcrod'otus,'  another  TbucydiUes,'  and  anothftf 
Livv  !^ 

2.  And  let  me  say,  gentlemen,  that  if  we  and  our  posterity 
sliall  be  true  to  the  Christian  religion, — if  we  and  they  shall  live 
always  in  the  fear  of  God,  and  shall  respect  his  commandments, — 
if  we  and  they  shall  maintain  just,  moral  sentiments,  and  such 
conscientious  convictions  of  duty  as  shall  control  the  heart  and 
life, — we  may  have  the  highest  hopes  of  the  future  fortunes  of 
our  country ;  and  if  we  maintain  those  institutions  of  govern- 
ment and  that  political  union,  exceeding  all  praise  as  much  as  it 
exceeds  all  former  examples  of  political  associations,  we  may  be 
sure  of  one  thing — that,  while  our  country  furnishes  materials  for 
a  thousand  masters  of  the  historic  art,  it  will  afford  no  topic 
for  a  Gibbon/  It  will  have  no  Decline  and  Fall.  It  will  go  on 
prospering  and  to  prosper. 

3.  But,  if  we  and  our  posterity  reject  religious  instruction  and 
authority,  violate  the  rules  of  eternal  justice,  trifle  wifli  the  in- 
junctions of  morality,  and  recklessly  destroy  the  political  consti- 
tution which  holds  us  together,  no  man  can  tell  how  sudden  a 
catastrophe  may  overwhelm  us,  that  shall  bury  all  our  glory  in 

'Herodotus,  called  the  *'  Father  of  History,"  a  native  of  Ha,licarna8- 
8US,  a  Dorian  city,  in  Asia  Minor,  was  born  b.  c.  484.  His  history  consists 
of  nine  books,  which  bear  the  name  of  the  nine  Muses.  In  the  complex- 
ity of  its  plan,  as  compared  with  the  simplicity  of  its  execution — in 
the  multiplicity  and  heterogeneous  nature  of  its  material,  and  the  har- 
mony of  their  combinations — in  the  grandeur  of  its  historical  masses, 
and  the  minuteness  of  its  illustrative  details — it  is  without  rival  or 
parallel.  It  may  be  regarded  as  the  perfection  of  epic  prose. — 'Tnu- 
CYDiDES,  the  historian,  an  Athenian  citizen,  was  born  about  b.  c.  471. 
His  immortal  history  of  the  Peloponnesian  war  is  divided  into  eiglit 
books.  He  is  regarded  as  first  in  the  first  rank  of  philosophical  histo- 
rians. His  style  is  concise,  vigorous,  and  energetic  ;  his  moral  reflec- 
tions are  searching  and  profound  ;  his  speeches  aboiuid  in  political  wis- 
dom ;  and  the  simple  minuteness  of  his  pictures  is  often  striking  and 
tragic. — '  LiVY,  an  illustrious  Roman  historian,  was  born  in  Italy,  b.  c. 
59,  and  died,  a.  d.  18.  He  has  erected  to  him.self  an  enduring  monu- 
ment in  his  History  of  Rome.  This  great  work  contiiined  the  history 
of  tha  Roman  State  frouA  the  earliest  pciiod  till  the  death  of  Drusus, 
B.  0.  S,  and  originally  consisted  of  142  books,  of  which  only  35  have 
descended  to  us.  His  style  may  be  pronojnced  almost  faultless.— 
GiiiBtwj,  see  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  77. 


FKUM    A    HISTORICAL    ADDRESS.  279 

profound  obscurity.  Should  that  catastrophe  happen,  let  it  have 
no  history  !  Let  the  horrible  narrative  never  be  written  !  Let 
its  fate  be  like  that  of  the  lost  books  of  Livy,  which  no  human 
eye  shall  ever  read ;  or  the  missing  Pleiad/  of  which  no  man  can 
ever  know  more,  than  that  it  is  lost,  and  lost  forever ! 

4.  But,  gentlemen,  I  will  not  take  my  leave  of  you  in  a  tone 
of  despondency.  We  may  trust  that  Heaven  will  not  forsake 
us,  nor  permit  us  to  forsake  ourselves.  We  must  streng-theu 
ourselves,  and  gird  up  our  loins  wifli  new  resolution ;  we  must 
counsel  each  other ;  and,  determined  to  sustain  each  other  in 
the  support  of  the  Constitution,  prepare  to  meet  manfully,  and 
united,  whatever  of  difficulty  or  of  danger,  whatever  of  eflfort 
or  of  sacrifice,  the  providence  of  God  may  call  upon  us  to  meet. 

5.  Are  we  of  this  generation  so  derelict,  have  we  so  little  of 
the  blood  of  our  revolutionary  fathers  coursing  through  our 
veins,  that  we  cannot  preserve  what  they  achieved  ?  The  world 
will  cry  out  "  shame"  upon  us,  if  we  show  ourselves  unworthy 
to  be  the  descendants  of  those  great  and  illustrious  men,  who 
fought  for  their  liberty,  and  secured  it  to  their  posterity,  by  the 
Constitution  of  the  United  States. 

6.  Gentlemen,  inspiring  auspices,  this  day,  surround  us  and 
cheer  ns.  It  is  the  anniversaiy  of  the  biith  of  Washington. 
We  should  know  this,  even  if  we  had  lost  our  calendars,  for  we 
should  be  reminded  of  it  by  the  shouts  of  joy  and  gladness.  The 
whole  atmosphere  is  redolent  of  his  name ;  hills  and  forests, 
rocks  and  rivers  echo  and  reecho  his  praises.  All  the  good, 
whether  learned  or  unlearned,  high  or  low,  rich  or  poor,  fuel, 
this  day,  that  there  is  one  treasure  common  to  them  all,  and  that 
is  the  fame  and  character  of  Washii^gton.  They  recount  his 
deeds,  ponder  over  his  principles  and  teachings,  and  resolve  to 
be  more  and  more  guided  by  them  in  the  future. 

7.  To  the  old  and  the  young,  to  all  born  in  the  land,  and  to 
all  whose  love  of  liberty  has  brought  them  from  foreign  shores 
to  make  this  the  home  of  their  adoption,  the  name  of  Washing- 

^  Pleiad  (pl6'  yad).  The  Pleiades,  in  heathen  mythology,  were  the  seven 
daughters  of  Atlas,  who  were  translated  to  the  heavens,  and  formed  the 
seven  star^  in  the  nock  of  the  constellation  Taurus.  There  are,  however, 
but  six  v'tfible  to  the  naked  eye,  and  hence  the  expression,  the  l<sl 
rteuul 


280  NATIONAL    FlFl'H    READER. 

ton  is  this  clay  an  exhilarating  theme.  Americans  by  b'.rth  are 
proud  of  his  character,  and  exile.s*from  foreign  shores  are  eager 
to  participate  in  admiration  of  him ;  and  it  is  true  that  l>e  is, 
this  day,  here,  everywhere,  all  the  world  over,  more  an  object  of 
love  and  regard  than  on  any  day  since  his  birth. 

8.  Gentlemen,  on  Washington's  principles,  and  under  Ihe 
guidance  of  his  example,  will  we  and  our  children  ui)hold  the 
(Jonstitution,  Under  his  military  leadership  our  fathers  con- 
quered ;  and  under  the  outspread  banner  of  his  political  and  con- 
stitutional piinciples  will  we  also  conquer.  To  that  standard  we 
shall  adhere,  and  uphold  it  through  evil  report  and  through 
good  report.  We  will  meet  danger,  we  will  meet  death,  if  they 
come,  iu  its  protection ;  and  we  will  struggle  on,  in  daylight 
and  in  darkness,  ay,  in  the  thickest  darkness,  wifli  all  the 
storms  which  it  may  bring  with  it,  till 

"  Danger's  troubled  night  is  o'er 
And  the  star  of  Peace  return." 

Daniel  Webster. 

Daniel  WrBSTER,  one  of  tlie  greatest,  if  not  the  greatest  of  American  orators, 
jurists,  and  statesmen,  was  born  in  the  town  of  Sahsbury,  New  Hampshire, 
J:tniiary  18,  178-2.  At  the  age  of  fifteen  he  entered  Dartmouth  College,  where 
he  graduated  in  due  course,  exliibiting  remarkable  faculties  of  mind.  When  in 
hu^  nineteenth  year,  he  delivered  a  Fourth  of  July  oration,  at  the  request  of  the 
citizens  of  Planover,  which,  energetic,  and  well  stored  with  historical  matter, 
proved  him,  at  that  early  age,  something  more  than  a  sounder  of  empty  words. 
Upon  graduating,  iu  1801,  he  assumed  the  charge  of  an  academy  for  a  year; 
then  commenced  the  study  of  law  in  his  native  village,  which  he  completed  in 
Boston  in  1805.  He  first  practiced  his  profession  near  his  early  home ;  but,  not 
long  after,  feeling  the  necessity  of  a  wider  sphere  of  action,  he  removed  to  Ports- 
moutli,  where  he  soon  gained  a  prominent  position.  In  18J2  he  was  elected  to  a 
seat  iji  the  National  Congress,  where  he  displayed  remarkable  powers  both  as  a 
debater  and  an  orator.  In  1817  he  removed  to  Boston,  and  resumed  the  practice 
of  his  profest'on  with  the  highest  distinction.  In  1822  he  was  elected  to  a  seal 
in  Congress  from  the  city  of  Boston;  and  in  1827  was  chosen  senator  of  tlie 
United  States,  from  Massachusetts.  From  that  period  he  was  seldom  out  of 
public  life,  having  been  twice  Secretary  of  State,  in  which  office  he  died.  In 
1839  he  visited  England  and  France,  and  was  received  with  the  greatest  distinc- 
tion in  both  countries.  Ilis  works,  arranged  by  liis  friend,  Edward  Everett, 
were  published  in  six  volumes,  at  Boston,  in  1851.  They  bear  the  impress  of  a 
comprehensive  intellect  and  exalted  patriotism.  He  died  at  Marshfield,  sur- 
rounded by  his  friends,  October  24th,  1852,  in  the  71st  year  of  his  age.  The  last 
words  ho  uttered  were,  *'  1  still  live."  Funeral  honors  were  paid  to  his  memory, 
in  Uie  chief  cities  of  the  Union,  by  processions  and  orations.  A  marble  block, 
placed  in  front  of  his  tomt,  ')ears  the  i^iscnption :  '  Loau,  I  believe,  help  thou 

MY  UNBKLIEP." 


TO   THE   EVENING    WIND.  281 


85.  To  THE  Evening  Wind. 

1     QPIRIT  that  breath  est  through  m}  lattice,  thou 
^  That  cooFst  the  twilight  of  the  sultry  cay, 
Gratefully  flows  thy  freshness  round  my  brow : 

Thou  hast  been  out  upon  the  deep  at  play, 
Riding  all  day  the  wild  blue  waves  till  now, 

Roughening  their  crests,  and  scattering  high  their  spray, 
And  swelling  the  white  sail.     I  welcome  thee 
To  the  scorch'd  land,  thou  wanderer  of  the  sea ! 

2.  Nor  I  alone — a  thousand  bosoms  round 

Inhale  thee  in  the  fullness  of  delight; 
And  languid  forms  rise  up,  and  pulses  bound 

Livelier,  at  coming  of  the  wind  of  night ; 
And,  languishing  to  hear  thy  grateful  sound. 

Lies  the  vast'  inland  stretch'd  beyond  the  sight. 
Go  forth,  into  the  gathering  shade ;  go  forth, 
God's  blessing  breathed  upon  the  fainting  earth  !' 

3.  Go,  rock  the  little  wood-bird  in  his  nest, 

CurP  the  still  waters,  bright  with  stars,  and  rouse 
The  wide  old  wood  from  his  majestic  rest, 

Summoninor  from  the  innumerable  boughs 
The  strange,  deep  harmonies  that  haunt^  his  breast : 

Pleasant  shall  be  thy  way  where  meekly  bows 
The  shutting  flower,  and  darkling  waters  pass,* 
And  where  the  o'ershadowing  branches  sweep  the  grass. 

4.  Stoop  o'er  the  place  of  graves,  and  softly  sway 

The  sighing  Acrbage^  by  the  gleaming  stone ; 
That  they  who  near  the  church-yard  willows  stray,         * 

And  listen  in  the  deepening  gloom,  alone, 
May  think  of  gentle  souls  that  pass'd  away. 

Like  thy  pure  breath,  into  the  vast  unknown, 
Sent  forth  from  heaven  among  the  sons  of  men, 
And  c:one  into  the  boundless  heaven  asfain, 

1  vast.— »  Earth  (^rtli).— 'Cml  (kSrl).— ♦  Hawut.— >  Tlss.— «  Glas?.— 
Z/Srb'  age. 


^82  NATIONAL    FltTIl    IlKADKR. 

5.  The  faint  old  man  shall  lean  his  silver  head 

To  feel  thee ;  thou  shalt  kiss  the  child  asleep, 

And  dry  the  moisten'd  curls  that  overspread 

Uis  temples,  while  his  breathing  grows  more  deep ; 

And  they  who  stand  about  the  sick  man's  bed 
Shall  joy  to  listen  to  thy  distant  sweep, 

And  softly  part  his  curtpuis'  to  allow 

Thy  visit,  grateful  to  his  burning'  brow. 

0.  Go — but  the  circle'  of  eternal^  change, 

Which  is  the  life  of  nature,  shall  restore, 

With  sounds  and  scents  from  all  thy  mighty  range, 
Thee  to  thy  birth-place  of  the  deep  once  more ; 

Sweet  odors  in  the  sea-air,  sweet  and  strange. 
Shall  tell  the  home-sick  mariner  of  the  shore ; 

And,  listening  to  thy  murmur,'  he  shall  deem 


He  heat's  the  rustlino:  leaf  and  runnino^  stream. 


W.  C.  Bryant.' 


86.  Gil  Blas  and  the  old  Akchbishop. 

Arch.  Well,  young  man,  what  is  your  business  wifh  me  ? 

Gil  Bias.  I  am  the  young  man  whom  your  nephew,  Don 
Fernando,  was  pleased  to  mention  to  you. 

Arch.  Oh !  you  are  the  person,  then,  of  whom  he  spoke  so 
handsomely.  I  engage  you  in  my  service,  and  consider  you  a 
v:;luable  acquisition.  From  the  specimens  he  showed  me  of 
your  powers,  you  must  be  pretty'  well  acquainted  with  the 
Greek  and  Latin  authors.  It  is  very  evident  your  education  has 
not  been  neglected.  I  am  satisfied  with  your  handwriting,  and 
gtill  more  with  your  understanding.  I  thank  my  nephew,  Don 
Fernando,  for  having  given  me  such  an  able  young  man,  whom 
I  consider  a  rich  acquisition.  You  transcribe  so  well,  you  must 
certainly  understand  grammar.  Tell  me,  ingenuously,  my  friend, 
did  you  find  nothing^  that  shocked  you  in  writing  over  the  hom- 

*  Curtains   (k5i'  tinz).  — *  Curning   (bSrn'  ing).  —  *  Circle   (s5i-'  kl).-- 

*  E  t^r'  mil. — '  Murmur  (ra5r'  mer). — •  See  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  118.— 

*  Pretty  (pvU'  ty).— *  Nothing  (uiith'  ing). 


GIL    BLAS    AXD    TUK    OLIt    ARCllIiFSHOP.  283 

ily  I  sent,  you  on  trial, — some  neglect,  icrhaps,  in  style,  or  souic 
improper  term  ? 

Gil  B.  Oh!  Sir,  I  am  not  learned  e.iough  to  make  critical 
observations ;  and  if  I  was,  I  am  persuaded  the  works  of  youj 
grace  would  escape  my  censure. 

Arch.  Young  man,  you  are  disposed  to  flatter;  but  tell  me, 
which  parts  of  it  did  you  think  most  strikingly  beautiful. 

Gil  B.  If,  where  all  was  excellent,  any  parts  w^ere  particular- 
ly so,  I  should  say  they  were  the  personification  of  hope,  and  the 
description  of  a  good  man's  death. 

Arch.  I  see  you  have  a  delicate  knowledge  of  the  truly  beau- 
tiful. This  is  what  I  call  having  taste  and  sentiment.  Gil  Bias,* 
henceforth  give  thyself  no  uneasiness  about  thy  fortune,  I  will 
take  care  of  that.  I  love  thee,  and  as  a  proof  of  my  affection, 
I  will  make  thee  my  confidant :  yes,  my  child,  thou  shalt  be  the 
repository  of  my  most  secret  thoughts.  Listen  with  attention 
to  what  I  am  going  to  say.  My  chief  pleasure  consists  in 
preaching,  and  the  Lord  gives  a  blessing  to  my  homilies,  but  I 
confess  my  weakness.  The  honor  of  being  thought  a  perfect 
orator  has  charmed  my  imagination ;  my  performances  are 
thought  equally  nervous  and  delicate ;  but  I  would  of  all  things 
avoid  the  fault  of  good  authors,  who  write  too  long.  Where- 
fore,^ my  dear  Gil  Bias,  one  thing  that  I  exact  of  thy  zeal,  is, 
whenever  thou  shalt  perceive  my  pen  smack  of  old  age,  and  my 
genius  flag,  don't  fail  to  advertise'  me  of  it,  for  I  don't  trust  to 
my  own  judgment,  which  may  be  seduced  by  self-love.  That 
observation  must  proceed  from  a  disin'terested  understanding, 
and  I  make  choice  of  thine,  which  I  know  is  good,  and  am  re- 
solved to  stand  by  thy  decision. 

Gil  B.  Thank  heaven^  sir,  that  time  is  far  off".  Besides,  a 
genius  Hke  that  of  your  grace,  will  preserve  its  vigor  much  bet- 
ter than  any  other ;  or,  to  s\)eak  more  justly,  will  be  always  the 
same.     I  look  upon  you  a5  another  Cardinal  Ximines,*  whose 

*  Gil  Bias  (zM  blfi). — '  Wherefore  (whSr'  for). — '  FRA^'CIS  Ximifes,  arch- 
bishop of  Toledo,  confessor  to  Queen  Isabella  of  Spain,  was  born  in 
1437.  He  received  the  cardinal's  hat  in  1507.  His  chief  influence  arose 
from  liis  etforts  to  reform  the  Romish  Church.  He  was  a  great  patron 
of  letters,  and  by  his  exertions  and  expenditure  produced  tlie  earliest 
edition  of  a  polyglot  Bible.     He  died  November  8,  1517. 


284  NATIONAL    FIFTH     READER. 

superior  genius,  instead  ( '  being  weakened,  seemed  to  acquire 
new  strength  by  age. 

Arch.  No  flattery,  friend :  I  know  I  am  liable  to  sink  all  at 
once.  People  at  my  age  begin  to  feel  infirmities,  and  the  in- 
firmities of  the  body  often'  affect  the  understanding.  I  repeat 
it  to  thee  again,  Gil  Bias,  as  soon  as  thou  shalt  judge  mine  in 
the  least  impaired,  be  sure  to  give  mo  notice.  And  be  not 
afraid  of  speaking  freely  and  sincerely,  for  I  shall  receive  thy 
advice  as  a  mark  of  thy  affection. 

Gil  B.  Your  grace  may  always  depend  upon  my  fidelity. 

Arch.  I  know  thy  sincerity,  Gil  Bias ;  and  now  tell  me  plain- 
ly, hast  thou  not  heard  the  people  make  some  remarks  upon  my 
late  homilies  ? 

Gil  B.  Your  homilies  have  ahvays  been  admirdd,  but  it  seems 
to  mc  that  the  last^  did  not  appear  to  have  had  so  pow^erful  an 
effect  upon  the  audience  as  former  ones. 

Arch.  How,  sir,  has  it  met  wifli  any  Aristarchus  ?' 

Gil  B.  No,  sir,  by  no  means,  such  works  as  yours  are  not  to 
bo  criticised ;  everybody  is  charmed  wifh  them.  Nevertheless, 
since  you  have  laid  your  injunctions  upon  me  to  be  free  and  sin- 
cere, I  will  take  the  liberty  to  tell  you  that  your  last  discourse, 
in  my  judgment,  has  not  altogether  the  energy  of  your  othei 
performances.     Did  you  not  think  so,  sir,  yourself? 

Arch.  So,  then,  Mr.  Gil  Bias,  this  piece  is  not  to  your  taste  ? 

Gil  B.  I  don't  say  so,  sir :  I  think  it  excellent,  although  a  little 
inferior  to  your  other  works. 

Arch.  I  understand  you ;  you  think  I  flag,  don't  you  ?  Come, 
be  plain ;  you  believe  it  is  time  for  me  to  think  of  retiring. 

Gil  B.  I  should  not  have  been  so  bold  as  to  speak  so  freely, 
if  your  grace  had  not  commanded''  me ;  I  do  no  more,  there- 
fore,* than  obey  you ;  and  I  most  humbly  beg  that  you  will  not 
be  oflfended  at  my  freedom. 

Arch.  God  forbid  !  God  forbid  that  I  should  find  fault  with  it. 
I  don't  at  all  take  it  ill  that  you  should  speak  your  sentiments, 


'  Often  (6f'  fn). — ^  Ltlst. — '  Aristarchus  was  a  celebrated  grammarian 
of  Samos.  He  was  famous  for  his  critical  powers  ;  and  he  revised  the 
poems  of  Homer  with  such  severity,  that,  ever  after,  all  severe  critica 
were  called  Aristarchi. — *  Com  mdnd'  ed. — » ITiSre'  f6r«. 


CHARGE    AGAINST    LOKD    BYKcN.  2S5 

it  is  your  sentiment  itself,  only,  that  I  find  bad.  I  have  been 
most  egregiously  deceived  in  your  narrow  understanding. 
6^27  B.  Your  grace  will  pardon  me  for  obeying — 
Arch.  Say  no  more,  my  child,  you  are  yet  too  raw  to  make 
proper  distinctions.  Be  it  known  to  y9u,  I  never  composed  a 
better  homily  than  that  which  you  disapprove ;  for,  my  genius, 
thank  Heaven,  hath,  as  yet,  lost  nothing  of  its  vigor :  henceforth 
I  will  make  a  better  choice  of  a  confidant.  Go !  go,  Mr.  Gil 
Bias,  and  tell  my  treasurer  to  give  you  a  hundred  ducats,  and 
may  Heaven  conduct  you  wifh  that  sum.  Adieu,  Mr.  Gil  Bias ! 
I  wish  you  all  manner  of  prosperity,  with  a  little  more  taste. 

Le  Sage. 

Alain  Le  Sage,  a  French  novelist  and  dramatist,  was  born  in  1CG8.  In  169*2, 
after  having  studied  at  the  Jesuit  College  of  Vannes,  he  came  to  Paris,  where 
he  was  admitted  as  an  advocate,  but  soon  betook  himself  exclusivelj'  to  litera- 
ture. Few  of  his  plays  were  successful ;  and  for  many  years  his  career  was  very 
obscure.  Entering  on  the  study  of  Spanish  literature,  he  used  models  from  that 
language  for  his  comic  novels,  some  of  which  are  among  the  liveliest  and  witti- 
est of  their  class.  His  most  celebrated  work  is  "  Gil  Bias,"  from  which  tlie 
above  is  taken.    He  died  at  Boulogne,  in  1747. 


87.  Chakge  AGAmsT  Lord  Bykon. 

THE  charge  we  bring  against  Lord  Byron  is,  that  his  writings 
have  a  tendency  to  destroy  all  belief  in  t/ie  reality  of  virtue, 
and  to  make  all  enthusiasm  and  constancy  of  affection  ridicu- 
lous :  and  this,  not  so  much  by  direct  maxims  and  examples,  of 
an  imposing  or  seducing  kind,  as  by  the  constant  exhibition  of 
the  most  profligate  heartlessness  in  the  persons  who  had  been 
transiently  represented  as  actuated  by  the  purest  and  most  ex- 
alted emotions  ;  and  in  the  lessons  of  that  very  teacher  who  had 
been,  but  a  moment  before,  so  beautifully  pathetic  in  the  expres- 
sion of  the  loftiest  conceptions. 

2.  When  a  gay  voluptuary  descants,  somewhat  too  freely,  on 
the  intoxications  of  love  and  wine,  we  ascribe  his  excesses  to  the 
effervescence  of  youthful  spirits,  and  do  not  consider  him  as  se- 
riously impeaching  either  the  value  or  the  reality  of  the  severer 
virtues ;  and,  in  the  same  way,  when  the  satirist  deals  out  his 
sarcasms  against  the  sincerity  of  human  professions,  and  un- 
masks the  secret  infirmities  of  o  ir  bosoms,  we  consider  this  as 
aimed  at  hypocrisy,  and  not  at  mankind  :  or,  at  all  events,  and 


286  NATIONAL  Fiirni  reaXjKh.. 

in  either  case,  we  consider  the  sensualist  and  mismthrope  as 
wandering,  each  in  His  own  delusion,  and  are  contented  to  pity 
those  who  have  never  known  the  charms  of  a  tender  or  gener- 
ous affection. 

3.  The  true  antidote  to  such  seductive  or  revolting  views  of 
liiunan  nature,  is  to  turn  to  the  scenes  of  its  nobleness  and  at- 
traction ;  and  to  reconcile  ourselves  again  to  our  kind,  bj  listen- 
ing to  the  accents  of  pure  affection  and  incorruptible  honor. 
But,  if  those  accents  have  flowed  in  all  their  sweetness  from  the 
very  lips  that  instantly  open  again  to  m6ck  and  blaspheme 
them,  the  antidote  is  mingled  with  the  poison,  and  the  draught 
is  the  more  deadly  for  the  mixture ! 

4.  The  reveler  may  pursue  his  orgies,  and  the  wanton  display 
her  enchantments,  wifli  comparative  safety  to  those  around 
them,  as  long  as  they  know  or  believe,  that  there  are  purer  and 
higher  enjoyments,  and  teachers  and  followers  of  a  happier  way. 
But,  if  the  priest  pass  from  the  altar,  with  persuasive  exhorta- 
tions to  peace  and  purity  still  trembling  on  his  tongue,  to  join 
familiarly  in  the  grossest  and  most  profane  debaucheiy — if  the 
matron,  who  has  charmed  all  hearts  by  the  lovely  sanctimonies 
of  her  con'jugal  and  maternal  endearments,  glides  out  from  the 
circle  of  her  children,  and  gives  bold  and  shameless  way  to  the 
most  abandoned  and  degrading  vices,  our  notions  of  right  and 
wrong  are  at  once  confounded,  our  confidence  in  virtue  shaken 
to  the  foundation,  and  our  reliance  on  truth  and  fidelity  at  an 
end  forever. 

5.  This  is  the  charge  which  we  bring  against  Lord  Byron. 
We  say,  that  under  some  strange  misapprehension  as  to  the 
truth,  and  the  duty  of  proclaiming  it,  he  has  exerted  all  the 
powers  of  his  powerfVil  mind  to  convince  his  readers,  both  di- 
rectly and  indirectly,  that  all  ennobling  pursuits  and  disin'ter- 
ested  virtues  are  mere  deceits  or  illusions — hollow  and  despica- 
ble mockeries,  for  the  most  part,  and,  at  best,  but  laborious  fol- 
lies. Religion,  love,  patriotism,  valor,  devotion,  constancy,  am- 
bition— all  are  to  be  laughed  at,  disbelieved  in,  and  despised ! 
and  nothing  is  really  good,  so  far  as  we  can  ixather,  but  a  suc- 
cession of  dangers  to  stir  the  blood,  and  of  ban(|ucts  and  in- 
trigues to  soothe  it  again  ! 

0.  If  this  doctrine  stood   alone  wiCli  its  ex:unj)les,  it  would  re- 


LORD   lYEON,  287 

volt,  wc  believe,  more  than  it  would  seduce.  But  the  author 
has  the  unlucky  gift  of  personating  all  those  sweet  and  lofty 
illusions,  and  that  with  such  grace  and  force,  and  truth  to  nature, 
that  it  is  impossible  not  to  suppose,  for  the  time,  that  he  is 
among  the  most  devoted  of  their  votaries — till  he  casts  off  the 
character  with  a  jerk,  and,  the  moment  after  he  has  moved  and 
exalted  us  to  the  very  height  of  our  conception,  resumes  his 
mockery  at  all  things  serious  or  sublime,  and  lets  us  down  at 
once  on  some  coarse  joke,  hard-hearted  sarcasm,  or  fierce  and 
relentless  personality, — as  if  on  purpose  to  show  "  whoe'er  was 
edified,  himself  was  not,"  or  to  demon'strate,  practically  as  it 
were,  and  by  example,  how  possible  it  is  to  have  all  fine  and 
noble  feelings,  or  their  appearance,  for  a  moment,  and  yet  re- 
tain no  particle  of  respect  for  them,  or  of  belief  in  their  intrinsic 
worth  or  permanent  reality.      .  Francis  Jeffrey. 

Francis  Jeffrey,  one  of  the  most  eloquent  writers  and  most  masterly  critics 
in  the  English  language,  an  eminent  jurist  and  orator,  was  born  at  Edinburgh, 
Scotland,  on  the  23d  of  October,  1773.  He  passed  six  years  at  the  High  School 
of  Etlinburgh,  studied  at  the  University  of  Glasgow  for  two  sessions  of  six  montlifl 
each,  and  in  his  eighteenth  year  resided  for  a  few  montlis  at  Oxford.  His  read- 
ing in  his  youtli  embraced  classics,  history,  ethics,  criticism,  and  the  bellea- 
lettres:  he  was  indefatigable  in  practicing  composition,  and  in  early  manhood 
wrote  many  verses.  He  was  admitted  to  the  Scottish  bar  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
one.  The  first  numbei  of  the  "  i^linburgh  Review,"  which  contained  five  pa- 
pers of  Jeffrey's,  appeared  in  October,  180'2,  when  he  was  twenty-nine  yeara 
old  ;  and  he  became  its  editor  after  the  first  two  or  three  numbers.  The  celeb- 
rity which  the  Review  at  once  attained,  was  owing  far  more  to  him  than  any 
other  of  the  contributors.  His  professional  practice  became  very  great ;  and 
from  1816  till  he  ceased  to  practice,  he  was  the  acknowledged  leader  of  the  Scot- 
tish bar.  In  1820,  and  again  in  1821,  he  was  elected  Lord  Rector  of  the  Univer- 
sity of  Glasgow.  He  was  appointed  president  of  the  Faculty  of  Advocatiis  in 
1829,  when  he  resigned  the  editorship  of  tlie  Review,  a  position  which  he  had 
held  for  twenty-seven  yeai-s.  During  that  period  he  contributed  more  than,  two 
hundred  articles.  In  1830  he  was  appointed  Lord  Advocate,  an  ofliice  wlilch, 
besides  many  other  duties,  involved  those  of  Secjetary  of  State  for  Scotland.  He 
thus  entered  parliament  in  his  fifty-eighth  yeai.  In  1834  he  was  raised  to  the 
bench,  and  became  an  eminent  judge,  assuming  the  title  of  Lord  Jeffrey.  I;i 
1843  he  published  three  volumes,  containing  selections  from  his  "  Contributioiig 
to  the  Edinburgh  Rtvieio.'*  He  died  at  Edinburgh,  on  the  2Gth  of  January 
1850. 

88.  Lord  Byeon. 

1.    A    MAN  of  raink,  and  of  capacious  soul, 

-Lx.  Who  riches  had,  and  fame,  beyond  desire; 
An  hoir  of  flattcrv,  to  titles  born. 


2i*8  NATIONAL   FIFrU    REAUfHt. 

And  "reputation,  and  luxurious  life : 
Y6t,  not  content  with  ancestorial  name, 
Or  to  be  known,  because  his  fathers  were, 
He  on  this  height  hereditary  stood, 
And,  gazing  higher,  purposed  in  his  heart 
To  take  another  step. 

2.  Above  him  seem'd. 
Alone,  the  mount  of  song,  the  lofty  seat 
Of  canonized  bards,  and  thitherward. 
By  Nature  taught,  and  inward  melody. 
In  prime  of  youth,  he  bent  his  eagle  eye. 

No  cost  was  spared.     What  books  he  wishM,  he  read; 
What  sage  to  hear,  he  heard ;  what  scenes  to  see, 
He  saw.     And  first  in  rambling  school-boy  days, 
Britannia's  mountain-walks,  and  heath-girt  lakes, 
And  story-telling  glens,  and  founts,  and  brooks. 
And  maids,  as  dew-drops,  pure  and  fair,  his  soul 
Wifh  grandeur  fiU'd,  and  melody,  and  love. 

3.  Then  travel  came,  and  took  him  where  he  wish'd 
He  cities  saw,  and  courts,  and  princely  pomp ; 
And  mused  alone  on  ancient  mountain-brows ; 
And  mused  on  battle-fields,  where  valor  fought 
In  other  days ;  and  mused  on  ruins  gray 

Wifh  years ;  and  drank  from  old  and  fabulous  wells, 
And  pluck'd  the  vine  that  first-born  prophets  pluck'd ; 
And  mused  on  famous  tombs,  and  on  the  wave 
Of  ocean  mused,  and  on  the  desert  waste ; 
The  heavens  and  earth  of  every  country  saw. 
Where'er  tlie  old  inspiring  Genii  dwelt. 
Aught  that  could  rouse,  expand,  refine  the  soul, 
Thither  he  went,  and  meditated  there. 

4.  He  touch'd  his  harp,  and  nations  heard  entranced. 
As  some  vast  river  of  unfailing  source. 

Rapid,  exhaustless,  deep,  his  numbers  flow'd, 

And  oped  new  fountains  in  the  human  heart. 

Where  fancy  halted,  weary  in  her  llight, 

In  other  men,  his,  fresh  as  morning,  rose, 

And  soar'd  untrodden  heights,  and  seera'd  at  home, 


LORD    BYKON.  28 9 

Where  angels  bashful  look'd..    Others,  though  great, 
Beneafli  their  argument  seem'd  struggling ;  whiles 
He  from  above  descending,  stoop'd  to  touch 
The  loftiest  thought ;  and  proudly  stoop'd,  as  though 
Tt  scarce  deserved  his  verse. 

5.  Wifli  Nature's  self 

He  seem'd  a,n  old  acquaintance,  free  to  jest 
At  will  with  all  her  glorious  majesty. 
He  laid  his  hand  upon  "  the  Ocean's  mane," 
And  play'd  familiar  with  his  hoary  locks. 
Stood  on  the  Alps,  stood  on  the  Apennines, 
And  with  the  thunder  talk'd,  as  friend  to  friend ; 
And  wove  his  garland  of  the  lightning's  wing, 
In  sportive  twist, — the  lightning's  fiery  wing, 
Which,  as  the  footsteps  of  the  dreadful  God, 
Marching  upon  the  storm  in  vengeance  seem'd : 
Then  turn'd,  and  with  the  grasshopper,  that  sung 
His  evening  song  beneath  his  feet,  conversed. 

6.  Suns,  moons,  and  stars,  and  clouds  his  sisters  were; 
Rocks,  mountains,  meteors,  seas,  and  w^inds,  and  storms, 
His  brothers, — younger  brothers,  whom  he  scarce 
As  equals  deem'd.     All  passions  of  all  men, — 
The  wild  and  tame — the  gentle  and  severe ; 
All  thoughts,  all  maxims,  sacred  and  profane ; 
All  creeds ;  all  seasons.  Time,  Eternity ; 
All  that  was  hated,  and  all  that  was  dear ; 
All  that  was  hoped,  all  that  was  feared  by  man, 
He  tossed  about,  as  tempest-wither'd  leaves. 
Then  smiling  look'd  upon  the  wreck  he  made. 

*I.  With  terror  now  he  froze  the  cowering  blood ; 
And  now  dissolved  the  heart  in  tenderness : 
Yet  would  not  tremble,  would  not  weep  himself; 
But  back  into  his  soul  retired,  alone. 
Dark,  sullen,  proud, — gazing  contemptuously 
On  hearts  and  passions  prostrate  at  his  feet. 
So  Ocean  from  the  plains  his  waves  had  late 
To  desolation  swept,  retired  in  pride, 
13 


290  NATION  AX  FIFTH  KEADEK. 

Exulting  in  the  glory  of  his  might, 

And  seem'd  to  mock  the  ruin  he  had  wroight 

8.  As  some  fierce  comet  of  tremendous  size, 

To  which  the  stars  did  reverence  as  it  passM, 

So  he  through  learning  and  through  fancy  took 

His  flight  sublime ;  and  on  the  loftiest  top 

Of  Fame's  dread  mountain  sat :  not  soil'd,  and  worn, 

As  if  he  from  the  earth  had  labor'd  up ; 

But,  as  some  bird  of  heavenly  plumage  fair 

He  look'd,  which  down  from  higher  regions  came. 

And  perch'd  it  there,  to  see  what  lay  beneafli. 

9.  The  nations  gazed,  and  wonder'd  much,  and  praised ; 
Critics  before  him  fell  in  humble  plight, — 
Confounded  fell, — and  made  debasinof  sio-ns 

To  catch  his  eye;  and  stretchM,  and  swclFd  themselves, 

To  bursting  nigh,  to  utter  bulky  words 

Of  admiration  vast :  and  many,  too, 

Many  that  aira'd  to  imitate  his  flight, 

Wifli  weaker  wing,  unearthly  fluttering  made, 

And  gave  abundant  sport  to  after  days. 

10.  Great  man !  The  nations  gazed,  and  wonder'd  much. 
And  praised ;  and  many  call'd  his  evil  good. 

Wits  wrote  in  favor  of  his  wickedness ; 

And  kings  to  do  him  honor  took  delight. 

Thus  full  of  titles,  flattery,  honor,  fame, — 

Beyond  desire,  beyond  ambition,  fi.il], — 

He  died  :  he  died  of  what  ?     Of  wretchedness. 

Drank  every  cup  of  joy,  heard  every' trump 

Of  fame ;  drank  early,  deeply  drank ;  drank  draughts 

That  common  millions  might  have  qucnch'd,  then  died 

Of  thirst,  because  there  was  no  more  to  drink. 

His  goddess.  Nature,  woo'd,  embraced,  enjoy'd, 

Fell  from  his  arms,  abhorr'd ;  his  passions  died,  -  - 

Died,  all  but  dreary,  solitary  pride ; 

And  all  his  sympathies  in  being  died. 

11.  As  some  ill-guided  bark,  well  built,  and  tall, 
Which  angry  tides  cast  out  on  desert  shore, 


MIDNIGHT THE    COLISEUM.  291 

And  then,  retiring,  left  it  there  to  rot 

And  molder  in  the  winds  and  rains  of  heaven ; 

So  he,  cut  from  the  sympathies  of  life. 

And  cast  ashore  from  pleasure's  boisterous  surge, 

A  wandering,  weary,  worn,  and  wretched  thing, 

Scorch'd,  and  desolate,  and  blasted  soul, 

A  gloomy  wilderness  of  dying  thought. 

Repined  and  groan'd,  and  withered  from  the  ea  th. 

Hi«  groanings  fiU'd  the  land  his  numbers  fill'd ; 

And  yet  he  seem'd  ashamed  to  groan  :  Poor  rLi*n ! — 

Ashamed  to  ask,  and  yet  he  needed  help. 

Egbert  -'*xjx)k 


89.  Midnight — the  Coliseum. 

THE  stars  are  forth,  the  moon  above  the  lop' 
Of  the  snow-shininof  mountains.     Beautifo' 
I  linger  yet  with  Nature,  for  the  night 
Hath  been  to  me  a  more  familiar  face 
Than  that  of  man ;  and  in  her  starry  shade 
Of  duTi  and  solitary  loveliness, 
I  learn'd  the  language  of  another  world. 

I  do  remember  me,  that  in  my  youth. 
When  I  was  wandering,  upon  such  a  night 
I  stood  within  the  Colise'um's^  wall, 
'Midst  the  chief  relics  of  all-mighty  Rome : 
The  trees  which  grew  along  the  broken  arche? 
Waved  dark  in  the  blue  midnight,  and  the  stas 
Shone  through  the  rents  of  ruin ;  from  afar 
The  watch-dog  bay'd  beyond  the  Tiber ;  and 
More  near,  from  out  the  Caesar's  palace  came 
The  owl's  long  cry,  and,  interruptedly. 


'  See  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  167. — '  Col  i  s^'  um,  the  amphi»*^/"*«^'-'>  f>i 
Vespasian,  at  Rome,  said  to  have  held  110,000  spectators.  The  ruina 
are  still  standing.  It  is  said  to  have  been  built  in  one  year,  by  the 
corapiilscry  labor  of  twelve  thousand  Jews.  It  was  called  the  Coliseum, 
from  the  colossal  statue  of  Nero,  which  was  placed  in  it.  In  this  am- 
phitheatre were  exhibited  the  contests  of  gladiators  and  wild  animals, 
and  other  savage  spectacles  in  which  the  Romans  delighted. 


292  NATIONAL   FIFTH    READEB. 

Of  distant  sentinels  the  fitful  sSng 
Begun  and  died  upon  the  gentle  wind. 

3    Some  cypresses  beyond  the  time-worn  breach 
A.ppear'd  to  skirt  the  horl'zon,  ygt  they  stood 
Within  a  bow-shot.     Where  the  Caesars  dwelt, 
And  dwell  the  tuneless  birds  of  night,  amidst 
A  grove  which  springs  through  level'd  battlements, 
And  twines  its  roots  with  the  imperial  hearths,' 
Ivy  usurps  the  laurel's  place  of  growth ; 
But  the  glad'iiitor's^  bloody  circus  stands 
A  noble  wreck  in  ruinous  perfection ! 
While  Caesar's  chambers  and  the  Augustan  halls 
Grovel  on  earth  in  indistinct  decay. 

4.  And  thou  didst  shine,  thou  rolling  moon,  upon  % 

All  this,  and  cast  a  wide  and  tender  light, 
Which  soften'd  down  the  hoar  austerity 
Of  rugged  desolation,  and  fiU'd  up. 
As  'twere  anew,  the  gaps  of  centuries ; 
Leaving  that  beautiful  which  still  was  so, 
And  making  that  which  was  not,  till  the  place 
Became  religion,  and  the  heart  ran  o'er 
Wifli  silent  worship  of  the  great  of  old — 
The  dead,  but  scepter'd  sovereigns,  who  still  rule 
Our  spirits  from  their  urns !  Lord  Byron. 

GKortOE  Gordon  Byron,  the  descendant  and  head  of  an  ancient  and  noble 
tainily,  was  bom  in  London,  January  22d,  1788.  He  entered  Trinity  College, 
Cambridge,  1805,  with  a  reire  reputation  for  general  information,  having  read  an 
almost  mcredible  list  of  works  in  various  departments  of  literature  before  the  age 
of  rtfteen.  He  neglected  the  prescribed  course  of  study  at  the  univereity,  but 
his  genius  kept  him  ever  active.  His  first  work,  "  The  Hours  of  Idleness,"  ap- 
peared in  1807.  It  received  a  castigation  from  the  "  Edinburgh  Review,"  to 
which  we  owe  the  first  spirited  outbreak  of  his  talents,  in  the  able  and  vigorous 
satire  entitled,  "  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers,"  published  in  1809.  He 
took  his  seat  in  the  House  of  Lords  a  few  days  before  the  appearance  of  this 
satire;  but  soon  left  for  the  Continent.  He  reJ.amed  home  in  1811,  with  two 
cantos  of  "Childe  Harold,"  which  he  had  written  abroad.  They  were  publish- 
ed in  March,  1812,  and  were  immediately  received  with  such  unbounded  admi- 
lation,  as  to  justify  the  poet's  terse  remark,  "  I  awoke  one  morning,  and  found 
myself  famous."  In  May  of  the  next  year,  appeared  his  "  Giaour ;"  in  Novem- 
ber, the  "  Bride  of  Abydos,"  written  in  a  week ;  and,  about  three  months  after. 


*  Hdlrth.— •  Glid'i  h  tor,  a  sword -player  ;  u  prize-fighter. 


VIEW    OF    THE    COLISEUM  293 

llie  "  (Joisair,"  written  in  lie  almost  incredible  space  of  ten  days.  jLnuary  2d, 
1815,  he  was  married  to  Miss  Milbanke,  tlie  only  daughter  and  heiress  of  Sir 
Ralph  Milbanke;  and  his  daugliter,  Augusta  AJa,  was  born  in  December  of 
that  year.  The  husband  and  wife,  for  an  unknown  cause,  separated  forever,  on 
the  15th  of  January  of  the  next  year.  He  quitted  England  for  the  last  time  on 
tlie  SSth  of  April,  1816,  and  passed  through  Flanders,  and  along  the  Rhine  to 
Switzerland,  where  he  resided  until  the  close  of  the  year.  He  here  composed 
the  third  canto  of  "  Childe  Harold,"  the  "  Prisoner  of  Chillon,"  "  Darkness," 
"  The  Dream,"  and  a  peirt  of  "  Manfred."  The  next  year  he  went  to  Italy, 
where  he  resided  several  years,  and  where  he  wrote  the  fourth  canto  of  "  Childe 
Harold,"  "  Mazeppa,"  "  The  Lament  of  Tas.so,"  "  Beppo,"  "Don  Juan,"  and 
his  dramatic  poems.  In  1823  he  interested  himself  in  the  struggle  of  the  Greeks 
to  throw  off  the  Turkish  yoke  and  gain  their  independence.  In  December  of 
that  year,  after  making  his  arrangements  with  judgment  and  generosity,  he 
sailed  for  Greece,  and  arrived  at  Missolcnghi  on  the  5th  of  January,  1824,  where 
he  was  received  with  great  enthusiasm.  In  three  months  li*-  did  much  to  pro- 
duce harmony  and  introduce  order ;  but  he  had  scarcely  .■  ranged  his  plans  to 
aid  the  nation,  when  he  was  seized  with  a  fever,  and  expired  on  the  19th  of 
April,  1824,  soon  after  having  celebrated,  in  affecting  verses,  the  completion  of 
his  thirty-sixth  year. 


90.  YiEW  OF  THE  Coliseum. 

J  WENT  to  sec  the  Colise'um  by  moonlight.  It  is  the  mon- 
arch, the  majesty  of  all  ruins ;  there  is  nothing  like  it.  All 
the  associations  of  the  place,  too,  give  it  the  most  impressive 
character.  When  you  enter  within  this  stupendous  circle  oi 
ruinous  walls  and  arches,  and  grand  terraces  of  masonry,  rising 
one  above  another,  you  stand  upon  the  arena  of  the  old  gladia- 
torial combats  and  Christian  martyrdoms ;  and  as  you  lift  your 
eyes  to  the  vast  amphitheater,  you  meet,  in  imagination,  the 
eyes  of  a  hundred  thousand  Romans,  assembled  to  witness  these 
bloody  spectacles.  What  a  multitude  and  mighty  array  of  hu- 
man beings !  and  how  little  do  we  know  in  modern  times  of 
great  assemblies !  One,  two,  and  three,  and  at  its  last  enlarj^e- 
ment  by  Constantine,'  more  than  three  hundred  thousand  per- 
sons could  be  seated  in  the  Circus  Maxim  us ! 

2.  But  to  return  to  the  Colise'um ;  we  went  up  under  the  con 
duct  of  a  guide,  upon  the  walls  and  terraces,  or  embankments 
which  supported  the  ranges  of  seats.  The  seats  have  long  since 
disappeared;  and  grass  overgrows  the  spots  where  the  pride, 
and  power,  and  wealth,  and  beauty  of  Rome  sat  down  to  its  bar- 


'  CoNSTANTiNB  I.,  Called  the  Great,  was  born  274   proclaimed  emperor 
of  Rome  by  the  army  300,  and  died  in  337. 


294  NATIONAL    Fli'TU    RKADKR. 

barous  entertainments.  What  thronging  life  was  here  then  — 
what  voices,  what  greetings,  what  hurrying  footsteps  up  the 
staircases  of  the  eighty  arches  of  entrance!  And  now,  as  we 
picked  our  way  carefully  through  the  decayed  passages,  oi 
cautiously  ascended  some  moldering  flight  of  steps,  or  stood  by 
the  lonely  walls^ — ourselves  silent,  and,  for  a  wonder,  the  guide 
silent  too— there  was  no  sound  here  but  of  the  bat,  and  noni 
came  from  without,  but  the  roil  of  a  distant  carriage  or  the  cou 
vent  bell  from  the  summit  of  the  neighboring  Esquiline. 

3.  It  is  scarcely  possible  to  describe  the  eflfect  of  moonlight 
upon  this  ruin.  Through  a  hundred  rents  in  the  broken  walls, 
through  a  hundred  lonely  arches  and  blackened  passage-ways,  it 
streamed  in,  pure,  bright,  soft,  lambent,  and  yet  distinct  and 
clear,  as  if  it  came  there  at  once  to  reveal,  and  cheer,  and  pity 
the  mighty  desolation.  But  if  the  Coliseum  is  a  mournful  and 
desolate  spectacle  as  seen  from  within — without,  and  especially 
on  the  side  wdiich  is  in  best  preservation,  it  is  glorious.  We 
passed  around  it ;  and,  as  we  looked  upward,  the  moon  shining 
through  its  arches,  from  the  opposite  side  it  appeared  as  if  it 
were  the  coronet  of  the  heavens,  so  vast  was  it — or  like  a  glori- 
ous crown  upon  the  brow  of  night. 

4.  I  feel  that  I  do  not  and  can  not  describe  this  mighty  ruin. 
I  can  only  say  that  I  came  away  paralyzed,  and  as  passive  as  a 
child.  A  soldier  stretched  out  his  hand  for  a  gratuity,  as  we 
passed  the  guard;  and  when  my  companion  said  I  did  wrong  to 
give,  I  told  him  that  I  should  have  given  my  cloak,  if  the  man 
had  asked  it.  Would  you  break  any  spell  that  worldly  feeling 
or  selfish  sorrow  may  have  spread  over  your  mind,  go  and  see 
the  Colisg^im  by  moonlight.  Orville  Dewey  ' 


91.  The  Dying  Gladiatok. 

1.  nriHE  seal  is  set. — Now  welcome,  thou  dread  power! 
i   Nameless,  yet  thus  omnipotent,  which  here 
Walk'st  in  the  shadow  of  the  midnio-ht  hour 
With  a  deep  awe,  yet  all  distinct  from  fear ; 
Thy  haunts  are  ever  where  the  dead  walls  rear 


'See  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  17G. 


THE    DYING    GLADIATOR.  295 

Their  ivy  mantles,  and  the  solemn  scene 

Derives  from  thee  a  sense  so  deep  and  clear, 
That  we  become  a  part  of  what  has  been, 
And  grow  unto  the  spot,  all-seeing,  but  unseen. 

2.  And  here  the  buzz  of  eager  nations  ran, 

In  murmur'd  pity,  or  loud-roar'd  applause, 
As  man  was  slaughter'd  by  his  fellow-man.    . 

And  wherefore  slaughter'd  ?  wherefore,  but  because 

Such  were  the  bloody  circus'  genial  laws, 
And  the  imperial  pleasure.     Wherefore  not  ? 

What  matters  where  we  fall  to  fill  the  maws 
Of  worms — on  battle-plains  or  listed  spot  ? 
Both  are  but  theaters  where  the  chief  actors  rot. 

3.  I  see  before  me  the  gladiator  lie : 

He  leans  upon  his  hand  ;  his  manly  brow 
Consents  to  death,  but  conquers  agony. 

And  his  droop'd  head  sinks  gradually  low ; 

And  through  his  side  the  last  drops,  ebbing  slow 
From  the  red  gash,  fall  heavy,  one  by  one. 

Like  the  first  of  a  thunder-shower ;  and  now 
The  arena  swims  around  him  :  he  is  gone. 
Ere  ceased  the  inhuman  shout  which  hail'd  the  wretch  who  won 

4.  He  heard  it,  but  he  heeded  not ;  his  eyes 

W^ere  with  his  heart,  and  that  was  far  away : 
He  reck'd  not  of  the  life  he  lost,  nor  prize ; 
But  where  his  rude  hut  by  the  Danube  lay. 
There  werb  his  young  barbarians  all  at  play, 
There  was  their  Dacian'  mother — he,  their  sire. 

Butch  er'd  to  make  a  Roman  holiday. 
All  this  rush'd  with  his  blood.     Shall  he  expire. 
And  unavenged  ?     Arise,  ye  Goths,'  and  glut  your  ire ! 

Lord  Byron.' 

•Dacian  (d&'  she  an),  from  Dacia,  a  country  of  ancient  Germany  form- 
ing the  modem  countries,  Hungary,  "Wallachia,  Moldavia,  and  Transyl- 
vania. Many  of  the  gladiators  came  from  Dacia,  especially  after  its 
conquest  by  Trajan,  in  the  year  103,  after  a  war  of  fifteen  years. — 
'  Goths,  a  celebrated  nation  of  Germans,  warriors  by  profession,  who, 
in  the  year  410,  under  their  king,  Alaric  plundered  Rome. — *See  Bio- 
jftaphical  Sketch,  p.  292. 


296  NATIONAL    FIFTH    REiiLDEB. 

92.  The  Inqtjiry. 

Ir  npELL  me,  ye  wmged  winds,  that  round  my  pathway  foar, 
-L   Do  ye  not  know  some  spot  where  mortals  weep  no  more  t 
Some  lone  and  pleasant  dell,  some  valley  in  the  west, 
Where,  free  from  toil  and  pain,  the  weary  soul  may  rest  ? 
The  loud  wind  dwindled  to  a  whisper  low, 
And  sigh'd  for  pity  as  it  answer'd  — "  No." 

2.  Tell  me,  thou  mighty  deep,  whose  billows  round  me  play, 
Know'st  thou  some  favor'd  spot,  some  island  far  away, 
Where  weary  man  may  find  the  bliss  for  which  he  sighs,-  - 
Where  sorrow  never  lives,  and  friendship  never  dies  ? 
The  loud  waves,  rolling  In  perpetual  flow, 
Stopp'd  for  a  while,  and  sigh'd  to  answer — "No." 

y.  And  thou,  serenest  moon,  that,  wifh  such  lovely  face, 
Dost  look  upon  the  earth,  asleep  in  night's  embrace ; 
Tell  me,  in  all  thy  round,  hast  thou  not  seen  some  spot, 
Where  miserable  man  might  find  a  happier  lot  ? 
Behind  a  cloud  the  moon  withdrew  in  woe. 
And  a  voice,  sweet,  but  "sad,  responded — "  No." 

4.  Tell  me,  my  secret  soul ; — oh  !  tell  me,  Hope  and  Faith, 
Is  there  no  resting-place  from  sorrow,  sin,  and  death  ? — 
Is  there  no  happy  spot,  where  mortals  may  be  bless'd. 
Where  grief  may  find  a  balm,  and  weariness  a  rest  ? 

Faith,  Hope,  and  Love,  best  boons  to  mortals  given, 
Waved  their   bright  wings,  and    whisper'd — "Yes,  in 
Heaven  1"  Charles  Mackay.* 


93.  The  Death  of  Hamilton.^ 

A  SHORT  time  since,  and  he,  who  is  the  occasion  of  our  sor- 
il-  rows,  was  the  ornament  of  his  country.  He  stood  on  an 
eminence,  and  glory  covered  him.  From  tl\at  eminence  he  has 
fallen :  suddenly,  forever  fallen.  His  intercourse  wifli  the  living 
world  is  now  ended ;  and  those  who  would  hereafter  find  him, 


'See  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  91  — '  A.lexander  Hamilton,  bcc  Bio- 
giaphical  Sketch,  p.  246,  note  5. 


DEATH    OF    HAMILTON.  297 

must  sojk  him  in  the  grave.  There,  cold  and  lifelees,  is  the 
heart  which  just  now  was  the  scat  of  friendship ;  there,  dim  and 
sightless,  is  the  eye,  whose  radiant  and  enlivening  orb  beamed 
with  intelligence ;  and  there,  closed  forever,  are  those  lips,  on 
whose  persuasive  accents  we  have  so  often,  and  so  lately  hung 
with  transport ! 

2.  From  the  darkness  which  rests  upon  his  tomh  there  pro- 
•  ceds,  methinks,  a  light,  in  which  it  is  clearly  seen,  that  those 
j,audy  objects  which  men  pursue  are  only  phantoms.  In  this 
light  how  dimly  shines  the  splendor  of  victory — how  humble  ap- 
pears the  majesty  of  grandeur !  The  bubble,  which  seemed  to 
have  so  much  solidity,  has  burst ;  and  we  again  see,  that  all  be- 
low the  sun  is  vanity.  ■ 

3.  True,  the  funeral  eulogy  has  been  pronounced,  the  sad  and 
solemn  procession  has  moved,  the  badge  of  mourning  has  al- 
ready been  decreed,  and  presently  the  sculptured  marble  will 
lift  up  its  front,  proud  to  perpetuate  the  name  of  Hamilton,  and 
rehearse  to  the  passing  traveler  his  virtues  (just  tributes  of  re- 
spect and  to  the  living  useful) ;  but  to  him,  moldering  in  his 
narrow  and  humble  habitation,  what  are  they?  How  vain! 
how  unavailing ! 

4.  Approach,  and  behold,  while  I  lift  from  his  sepulcher  its 
covering!  Ye  admirers  of  his  greatness!  ye  enaulous  of  his 
talents  and  his  fame !  approach  and  behold  him  now.  How 
pale !  how  silent !  No  martial  bands  admire  the  adroitness  ol 
his  movements;  no  fascinating  throng  weep,  and  melt,  and 
tremble  at  his  eloquence !  Amazing  change !  a  shroud !  a  cof- 
fin! a  narrow,  subterraneous  cabin! — this  is  all  that  now  re- 
mains of  Hamilton !  And  is  this  all  that  remains  of  Hamilton  ? 
During  a  life  so  transitory,  what  lasting  monument,  then,  can 
our  fondest  hopes  erect ! 

5.  My  brethren,  we  stand  on  the  borders  of  an  awful  gul^ 
which  is  swallowing  up  all  things  human.  And  is  tnere,  amidst 
this  universal  wreck,  nothing  stable,  nothing  abiding,  nothing 
immortal,  on  which  poor,  frail,  dying  man  can  fasten  ?  Ask  the 
hero,  ask  the  statesman,  whose  wisdom  you  have  been  accus- 
tomed to  revere,  and  he  will  tell  you.  He  will  tell  you,  did  I 
say  ?  He  has  already  told  you,  from  his  death-bed ;  and  his  il- 
lumined spirit  still  whispers  from  the  heavens,  wifh  well  known 


298  NATIONAL  FIFTH    EEADEE. 

eloquence,  the  solemn  admonition :  "  Mortals  hastening  to  the 
tomb,  and  once  the  companions  of  my  pilgrimage,  take  warning 
and  avoid  my  errors ;  cultivate  the  virtues  I  have  recommend- 
ed; choose  the  Saviour  I  have  chosen;  live  disinterestedly; 
live  for  immortality ;  and  would  you  rescue  any  thing  from  final 
dissolution,  lay  it  up  in  God."  President  Nott. 

Rev.  Eliphalet  Nott  was  bora  in  Ashford,  Connecticut,  in  1773,  and  passe** 
his  youth  as  a  teacher,  thereby  acquiring  the  means  of  properly  educating  him 
self.  He  received  the  degree  of  Master  of  Arts  from  Brown  University  in  1795. 
He  soon  after  estabhslied  himself  as  clergyman  and  principal  of  an  academy  at 
Cherry  Valley,  in  the  State  of  New  York.  From  1798  to  his  election  as  president 
of  Union  College,  in  1803,  he  was  pastor  of  the  Presbyterian  Church,  at  Albany, 
where  he  delivered  a  discourse  "  On  the  Death  of  Hamilton,"  from  which  the 
above  extract  is  taken.  In  1854,  the  fiftieth  anniversary  of  Dr.  Nott's  presidency 
was  celebrated  at  Union,  at  the  Commencement  in  July.  A  large  number  of 
graduates  assembled,  and  addresses  were  delivered  by  President  Wayland  of 
Brown  University,  and  Judge  Campbell  of  New  York.  Dr.  Nott  also  spoke  witli 
his  old  eloquence.  His  numerous  papers  in  periodicals  have  been  chiefly  anony- 
mous. His  "  Addresses  to  Young  Men,"  "Temperance  Addresses,"  and  a  col- 
lection of  "  Sermons,"  are  his  only  published  volumes. 


94.  Pass  on,  Kelentless  World. 

1.  aWIFTER  and  swifter,  day  by  day, 

^  Down  Time's  unquiet  current  hurl'd,* 
Thou  passest^  on  thy  restless  way, 

Tumultuous  and  unstable  world !' 
Thou  passcst  on !     Time  hath  not  seen 

Delay  upon  thy  hurried  path  ;'' 
And  prayers*  and  tears  alike  have  been 

In  vain  to  stay  thy  course  of  wrath  !^ 

2.  Thou  passcst  on,  and  wifh  thee  go 

The  loves  of  youth,'  the  cares^  of  age ; 
And  smiles  and  tears,  and  joy  and  woe, 

Are  on  thy  history's  troubled  page ! 
There,'  every  day,  like  ygsterday. 

Writes  hopes  that  end  in  mockery ; 
But  who  shall  tear'°  the  veil  away 

Before  the  abyss  of  things  to  be  ? 

•  Hurled  (hirld).— «  P&ss'  est.—'  World  (wfirld).— «  Pith.— •  Prayers 
(pr&iz)—' Wrath.-'  yfluth.--"  Cares  (k&rz).— •lliero  (th&r).—'"  Teir. 


PASS    ON;    tlELEN^rLESS    WORLD.  299 

8.  Thou  passest  on,'  and  at  thy  side, 

Even  as  a  shade,  Oblivion  treads, 
And  o'er  the  dreams  of  human  pride 

His  misty  shroud  forever  spreads ; 
Where  all  thine  iron  hand  hath  traced 

Upon  that  gloomy  scroll  to-day, 
Wifti  records  ages  since  effaced, — 

Like  them  shall  live,  like  them  decay. 

4.  Thou  passest  on,  wifh  thee  the  vain. 

Who  sport  upon  thy  flaunting^  blaze. 
Pride,  framed  of  dust  and  folly's  train. 

Who  court  thy  love,  and  run  thy  ways : 
But  thou  and  I, — and  be  it  so, — 

Press  onward  to  eternity ; 
Ygt  not  together  let  us  go 

To  that  deep-voiced  but  shoreless  sea. 

5.  Thou  hast  thy  friends, — I  would  have  mine ; 

Thou  hast  thy  thoughts, — leave  me  my  own ; 
I  kneel  not  at  thy  gilded  shrine, 

I  bow  not  at  thy  slavish  throne : 
r  see  them  pass  without  a  sigh, — 

They  wake  no  swelling  raptures  now, 
The  fierce  delights  that  fire  thine  eye. 

The  triumphs  of  thy  haughty  brow. 

6.  Pass  on,  relentless  world !     I  grieve 

No  more  for  all  that  thou  hast  riven ; 
Pass  on,  in  God's  name, — only  leave 

The  things  thou  never  yet  hast  given — 
A  heart  at  ease,  a  mind  at  home. 

Affections  fix'd  above  thy  sway, 
Faith  set  upon  a  world  to  come. 

And  patience  through  life's  little  day. 

George  Lunt. 

George  Lunt,  bom  at  Newburyport,  Massachusetts,  was  graduated  at  Har- 
vard in  1824 ;  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1831 ;  practiced  for  a  while  at  his  na 
tive  place,  and  since  1848  has  pursued  the  profession  in  Boston.  He  published 
his  firs*  volume  of  poeris  in  1839,  followed  in  1843  by  "  The  Age  of  (Jold  and 


Where  (wh4r).— '  Y\limt'  iug. 


300  NATIONAL   FIFTH    READER. 

other  Poems,"  and  in  1854  by  "  Lyric  Poems,  Sonnets,  and  Misceilanies."  His 
novel  of  New  England  life,  entitled  "  Eastford,  or  Household  Sketches,  by  "West- 
ley  Brooke,"  was  also  published  in  1854. 


95.  Select  Passages  in  Prose. 

I.  Good  Use  of  Memory. 
I  CAN  not  too  strongly  urge  upon  the  young  the  advantage  of 
ronimitting  to  memory  the  choicest  passages  in  prose  and  poetrj- 
in  English  literature.  What  we  learn  thoroughly  when  youngs 
remains  by  us  through  life.  "  Sir,"  said  the  great  Dr.  Johnson' 
to  Boswell,'  "  in  my  early  days  I  read  vgry  hard.  It  is  a  sad 
reflection,  but  a  true  one,  that  I  knew  almost  as  much  at  eighteen 
as  I  do  now.  My  judgment,  to  be  sure,  was  not  so  good ;  but  I 
had  all  the  facts.  I  remember  very  well  when  I  was  at  Oxford, 
an  old  gentleman  said  to  me,  *  Young  man,  ply  your  book  dili- 
gently now,  and  acquire  a  stock  of  knowledge ;  for  when  years 
come  unto  you,  you  will  find  that  poring  upon  books  will  be  but 
an  irksome  task.' " 

11.  Injudicious  Haste  in  Study. — Locke.' 

The  eagerness  and  strong  bent  of  the  mind  after  knowledge, 
if  not  warily  regulated,  is  often  a  hinderance  to  it.  It  still 
presses  into  further  discoveries  and  new  objects,  and  catches  at 
the  variety  of  knowledge,  and  therefore''  often  stays  not  l6ng 
enough  on  what  is  before  it,  to  look  into  it  as  it  should,  for  haste 
to  pursue  what  is  yet  out  of  sight.  He  that  rides  post  through 
a  country  may  be  able,  from  the  transient  view,  to  tell  in  general 
how  the  parts  lie,  and  may  be  able  to  give  some  loose  descrip- 
tion of  here  a  mountain  and  there  a  plain,  here  a  morass'  and 
there  a  river ;  woodland  in  one  part  and  savannas  in  another. 
Such  superficial  ideas  and  observations  as  these  he  may  collect 
in  galloping  over  it ;  but  the  more  useful  observations  of  the 
soil,  plants,  animals,  and  inhabitants,  with  their  several  sorts  and 
properties,  must  necessarily  escape  him ;  and  it  is  seldom  meu 
ever  discover  the  rich  mines  without  some  digging.     Nature 


*  Dr.  Johnson,  see  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  230. — 'James  Boswell,  the 
friend  and  biographer  of  Dr.  Johnson,  born  1740,  atid  died  1795.-- 
•LocKR,  seep.  213,  rrota  S.—*'lh^ieibre. 


SELECT    PASSAGES    IN    PROSE.  301 

commonly  lodges  her  treasures  and  jewels  in  rocky  gro  and.  If 
the  matter  be  knotty,  and  the  sense  lies  deep,  the  mind  must 
stop  and  buckle  to  it,  and  stick  upon  it  wifh  labor,  and  thought, 
And  close  contemplation,  and  not  leave  it  until  it  has  mastered 
the  difficulty  and  got  possession  of  truth.  But  here,  care  must 
be  taken  to  avoid  the  other  extreme :  a  man  must  not  stick  at 
o\(jiy  useless  nicety,  and  expect  mysteries  of  science  in  every 
ii\ia]  question  or  scruple  that  he  may  raise.  He  that  will  stand 
10  pick  up  and  examine  every  pebble  that  comes  in  his  way,  ia 
as  unlikely  to  return  enriched  and  laded  with  jewels,  as  the 
other  that  traveled  full  speed.  Truths  are  not  the  better  nor  the 
worse  for  their  obviousness  or  difficulty,  but  their  value  is  to  be 
measured  by  their  usefulness  and  tendency.  Insignificant  ob- 
servations should  not  take  up  any  of  our  minutes ;  and  those 
that  enlarge  our  view,  and  give  light  toward  further  and  useful 
discoveries,  should  not  be  neglected,  though  they  stop  our 
course,  and  spend  some  of  our  time  in  a  fixed  attention. 

III.  Studies. — Bacon.' 

Studies  serve  for  delight,  for  ornament,  and  for  ability.  Their 
chief  use  for  delight  is  in  privateness  and  retiring ;  for  orna- 
ment, is  in  discourse ;  and  for  ability,  is  in  the  judgment  and 
disposition  of  business ;  for  expert  men  can  execute,  and  perhaps 
judge  of  particulars,  one  by  one ;  but  the  general  counsels,  and 
the  plots  and  marshaling  of  aflfairs,  come  best  from  those  that 
are  learned.  To  spend  too  much  time  in  studies,  is  sloth ;  to 
use  them  too  much  for  ornament,  is  affectation ;  to  make  judg- 
ment wholly  by  their  rules,  is  the  humor  of  a  scholar :  they  per- 
fect nature,  and  are  perfected  by  experience — for  natural  abili- 
ties are  like  natural  plants,  that  need  pruning  by  study ;  and 
studies  themselves  do  give  forth  directions  too  much  at  large, 
except  they  be  bounded  in  by  experience.  Crafty  men  contemn 
studies,  simple  men  admire  them,  and  wise  men  use  them ;  for 
they  teach  not  their  own  use ;  but  that  is  a  wisdom  without 
them,  and  above  them,  ^von  by  observation.  Read  not  to  con- 
tradict and  confute,  nor  to  believe  and  take  for  granted,  nor  to 
find  talk  and  discourse,  but  to  weigh  and  consider.     Some  books 


Bacon,  see  p.  213,  note  1, 


302  NATIONAL    FIFTH    EEADER. 

are  to  be  tasted,  others  to  be  swallowed,  and  some  few  to  be 
chewed  and  digested :  that  is,  some  books  are  to  be  read  only  in 
parts ;  others  to  be  read,  but  not  curiously ;  and  some  few  to  be 
«;ead  wholly,  and  with  diligence  and  attention.  Some  books 
also  may  be  read  by  deputy,  and  extracts  made  of  them  by 
others ;  but  that  would  be  only  in  the  less  important  arguments, 
and  the  meaner  sort  of  books;  else  distilled  books  are,  like 
common  distilled  waters,  flashy  things.  Reading  maketh  a  full 
man,  conference  a  ready  man,  and  writing  an  exact  man :  and, 
therefore,  if  a  man  write  little,  he  had  need  have  a  great  memo- 
ry ;  if  he  confer  little,  he  had  need  have  a  present  wit ;  and  if 
he  read  little,  he  had  need  have  much  cunning,  to  seem  to  know 
that  he  doth  not. 

IV.  Books. — Channing.' 

It  is  chiefly  through  books  that  we  enjoy  intercourse  with 
superior  minds,  and  these  invaluable  means  of  communication 
are  in  the  reach  of  all.  In  the  best  books  great  men  talk  to  us, 
give  us  their  most  precious  thoughts,  and  pour  their  souls  into 
ours.  G6d  be  thanked  for  books.  They  are  the  voices  of  the 
distant  and  the  dead,  and  make  us  heirs  of  the  spiritual  life  of 
past  ages.  Books  are  the  true  levelers.  They  give  to  all,  who 
will  faithfully  use  them,  the  society,  the  spiritual  presence  of  the 
best  and  greatest  of  our  race.  No  matter  how  poor  I  am, — no 
matter  though  the  prosperous  of  my  own  time  will  not  enter  my 
obscure  dwelling, — if  the  sacred  writers  will  enter  and  take  up 
their  abode  under  my  roof,  if  Milton^  will  cross  my  threshold  to 
sing  to  ^e  of  Paradise,  and  Shakspeare'  to  open  to  me  the 
worlds  of  imagination  and  the  wcTkings  of  the  human  heart,  and 
Franklin  to  enrich  me  with  his  practical  wisdom,  I  shall  not 
pine  for  want  of  intellectual  companionship,  and  I  may  become 
a  cultivated  man,  though  excluded  from  what  is  called  the  best 
society  in  the  place  where  I  live. 

*  William  Ellery  Channing,  an  able  writer  and  eminent  Unitarian 
clergyman,  was  born  at  Newport,  Rhode  Island,  April  7,  1780.  The 
collection  of  his  works  embraces  six  volumes.  His  writings  are  distin- 
guished for  literary  elegance,  directness,  and  moral  energy.  He  died  at 
Bennington,  Vermont,  October  2,  1842. — '  Milton,  see  Biographical 
Sketch,  p.  582. — 'Suakspbauk,  see  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  348. 


8ELEOT    PASSAGES    IN    PKOSE.  30o 


V.  The  Bible.— Hall.' 


The  Bible  is  tlie  treasure  of  the  poor,  the  solace  of  the  sick, 
and  the  support  of  the  dying;  and  while  other  books  may 
amuse  and  instruct  in  a  leisure  hour,  it  is  the  peculiar  triumph 
of  that  book  to  create  light  in  the  midst  of  darkness,  to  allevi- 
ate the  sorrow  which  admits  of  no  other  alleviation,  to  direct  a 
beam  of  hope  to  the  heart  which  no  other  topic  of  consolation 
can  reach ;  while  guilt,  despair,  and  death  vanish  at  the  touch 
of  its  holy  inspiration.  There  is  something  in  the  spirit  and 
diction  of  the  Bible  which  is  found  peculiarly  adapted  to  arrest 
the  attention  of  the  plainest  and  most  uncultivated  minds.  The 
simple  structure  of  its  sentences,  combined  wifti  a  lofty  spirit  of 
poetry — its  familiar  allusions  to  the  scenes  of  nature  and  the 
transactions  of  common  life — the  delightful  intermixture  of  nar- 
ration with  the  doctrinal  and  preceptive  parts — and  the  profu- 
sion of  miraculous  facts,  which  convert  it  into  a  sort  of  enchant- 
ed ground — its  constant  advertence  to  the  Deity,  whose  perfec- 
tions it  renders  almost  visible  and  palpable — unite  in  bestowing 
upon  it  an  interest  which  attaches  to  no  other  performance,  and 
which,  after  assiduous  and  repeated  perusal,  invests  it  with  much 
of  the  charm  of  novelty ;  like  the  great  orb  of  day,  at  which 
we  are  wont^  to  gaze  with  unabated  astonishment  from  infancy 
to  old  age.  What  other  book  besides  the  Bible  could  be  heard 
in  public  assemblies  from  year  to  year,  with  an  attention  that  never 
tires,  and  an  interest  that  never  cloys  ?  With  few  exceptions, 
let  a  portion  of  the  sacred  volume  be  recited  in  a  mixed  mul- 
titude, and  though  it  has  been  heard  a  thousand  times,  a  univer- 
sal stillness  ensues,  every  eye  is  fixed,  and  every  ear  is  awake 
and  attentive.  Select,  if  you  can,  any  other  composition,  and 
let  it  be  rendered  equally  familiar  to  the  mind,  and  see  whether 
it  will  produce  this  effect. 


*  Egbert  Hall,  an  eminent  Baptist  clergyman,  was  born  at  Arnsby, 
England,  in  1764.  Splendid,  graceful,  and  majestic,  with  a  large  and 
various  erudition,  and  a  thorough  intellectual  training  ;  master  alike  of 
the  sternest  weapons  of  logic,  and  "  the  dazzling  fence  of  rhetoric  ;"  in 
Btyle,  combining  the  sweetness  of  Addison  with  the  "ublimity  of  Burke  ; 
he  was  regarded  as  the  most  eloquent  preacher  of  modern  times.  He 
died  in  February,  1831,  in  the  sixty-i^eventh  year  of  his  age. — '  W.iiif 

(W&Dt). 


304  NATIONAL   FIFTH    EEADKB. 


96.  BimN-G  Books. 


HOW  easily  one  may  distinguish  a  genuine  lover  of  books 
from  the  worldly  man  !  With  what  subdued  and  y6t  glow- 
ing enthusiasm  does  he  gaze  upon  the  costly  front  of  a  thousand 
embattled  volumes !  How  gently  he  draws  them  down,  as  if 
they  were  little  children !  how  tenderly  he  handles  them !  lie 
peers  at  the  title-page,  at  the  text,  or  the  notes,  with  the  nicetj 
of  a  bird  examining  a  flower.  He  studies  the  binding:  the 
leather, — Russia,  English  calf,  morocco ;  the  lettering,  the  gild- 
ing, the  edging,  the  hinge  of  the  cover !  He  opens  it,  and  shuts 
it,  he  holds  it  off,  and  brings  it  nigh.  It  suffuses  his  whole  body 
with  book-magnetism.  He  walks  up  and  down,  in  amaze  at 
the  mysterious  allotments  of  Providence  that  gives  so  much 
money  to  men  who  spend  it  upon  their  appetites,  and  so  little 
to  men  who  would  spend  it  in  benevolence,  or  upon  their  refined 
tastes !  It  is  astonishing,  too,  how  one's  necessities  multiply  in 
the  presence  of  the  supply.  One  never  knows  how  many  things 
it  is  impossible  to  do  without  till  he  goes  to  the  house-furnishing 
stores.  One  is  surprised  to  perceive,  at  some  bazaar,  or  fancy 
and  variety  store,  how  many  conveniences  he  needs.  He  is  sat- 
isfied that  his  life  must  have  been  utterly  inconvenient  aforetime. 
And  thus,  too,  one  is  inwardly  convicted,  at  a  bookstoio,  of 
having  lived  for  years  without  books  which  he  is  now  satisfied 
that  one  can  not  live  without 

2.  Then,  too,  the  subtle  process  by  which  the  man  convmces 
himself  that  he  can  afford  to  buy.  No  subtle  manager  or  broker 
ever  saw  through  a  maze  of  financial  embarrassments  half  so 
quick  as  a  poor  book-buyer  sees  his  way  clear  to  pay  for  what 
he  must  have.  He  promises  wifh  himself  marvels  of  retrench- 
ment; he  will  eat  less,  or  less  costly  viands,  that  he  may  buy 
more  food  for  the  mind.  He  will  take  an  extra  patch,  and  go 
on  with  his  raiment  another  year,  and  buy  books  instead  of 
coats.  Yea,  he  will  write  books,  that  he  may  buy  books.  He 
will  lecture,  teach,  trade — he  will  do  any  honest  thing  for  money 
to  buy  books ! 

3.  The  appetite  is  insatiable.  Feeding  does  not  satisfy  it.  It 
rages  by  the  fuel  which  is  put  upon  it.     As  a  hungry  man  eats 


BUYING    BOOKS.  305 

fiist  and  pays  afterward,  so  the  book-buyer  purchases,  and  then 
works  at  the  debt  afterward.  This  paying  is  rather  medicinal 
It  cures  for  a  time.  But  a  relapse  takes  place.  The  same  long- 
ing, the  saiae  promises  of  self-denial.  He  promises  himself  to 
put  spurs  on^  both  heels  of  his  in'dustry ;  and  then,  besides  all 
this,  he  will  somehow  get  along  when  the  time  for  payment 
comes !  Ah  !  this  Somehow  !  That  word  is  as  big  as  a  whole 
world,  and  is  stuffed  witii  all  the  vagaries  and  fantasies  that 
Fancy  ever  bred  upon  Hope. 

4.  And  yet,  is  there  not  some  comfort  in  buying  books,  to  he 
paid  for  ?  We  have  heard  of  a  sot,  who  wished  his  neck  as  long 
as  the  worm  of  a  still,  that  he  might  so  much  the  longer  enjoy 
the  flavor  of  the  draught ;  Thus,  it  is  a  prolonged  excitement 
of  purchase,  if  you  feel  for  six  months  in  a  slight  doubt  whet];ier 
the  book  is  honestly  your  own  or  not.  Had  you  paid  down, 
that  would  have  been  the  end  of  it.  There  w^ould  have  been  no 
aflfectionate  and  beseeching  look  of  your  books  at  you,  every 
time  you  saw  them,  saying,  as  plain  as  a  book's  eyes  can  say, 
"Z)o  not  let  me  he  taken  from  youV 

b.  Moreover,  buying  books  before  you  can  pay  for  them,  pro- 
motes caution.  You  do  not  feel  quite  at  liberty  to  take  them 
home.  You  are  married.  Your  wife  keeps  an  account-book. 
She  knows  to  a  penny  what  you  can  and  what  you  can  not  af- 
ford. She  has  no  "speculation"  in  her  eyes.  Plain  figures 
make  desperate  work  with  airy  "  somehows."  It  is  a  matter  of 
no  small  skill  and  experience  to  get  your  books  home,  and  into 
their  proper  places,  undiscovered.  Perhaps  the  blundering  Ex- 
press brings  them  to  the  door  just  at  evening.  "  What  is  it,  my 
dear  ?"  she  says  to  you.  "  Oh !  nothing — a  few  books  that  ] 
can  not  do  without." 

6.  That  smile !  A  true  housewife  that  loves  her  husband, 
can  smile  a  whole  arithmetic  at  him  in  one  look !  Of  course  she 
"''iist&  -in  the  kindest  way,  in  sympathizing  wifh  you  in  your 
literary  acquisition.  She  cuts  the  strings  of  the  bundle  (and  of 
your  heart),  and  out  comes  the  whole  story.  You  have  bought 
a  complete  set  of  costly  English  books,  full  bound  in  calf,  extr^ 
gilt !  You  are  caught,  and  feel  very  much  as  if  bound  in  calf 
yourself,  and  admirably  lettered. 

7.  Now,  this  must  rot  happen  frequently.     The  books  must 

20 


806  NATIONAL    FliTH    READER. 

be  smuggled  home.  Let  them  be  sent  to  some  near  place, 
Then,  when  your  wife  has  a  headache,  or  is  out  making  a  call, 
or  has  lain  down,  run  the  books  across  the  frontier  and  threshold, 
hastily  undo  them,  stop  only  for  one  loving  glance  as  you  put 
them  away  in  the  closet,  or  behind  other  books  on  the  shelf,  or 
on  the  topmost  shelf.  Clear  away  the  twine  and  wrapping-paper, 
ftnd  every  suspicious  circumstance.  Be  very  careful  not  to  Ix. 
too  kind.  That  often  brings  on  detection.  Only  the  other  dt\y 
we  heard  it  said,  somewhere,  "  Why,  how  good  you  have  been, 
lately  !  I  am  really  afrai  I  that  you  have  been  carrying  on  mis 
chief  secretly."  Our  heart  smote  us.  It  was  a  fact.  That  very 
day  we  had  bought  a  few  books  which  "  we  could  not  do  with- 
out." 

8.  After  a  while,  you  can  bring  out  one  volume,  accidentally, 
and  leave  it  on  the  table.  "  Why,  my  dear,  what  a  beautiful 
book !  Where  did  you  borrow  it  ?"  You  glance  over  the  news- 
paper, wiQi  the  quietest  tone  you  can  command :  "  That !  oh ! 
that  is  mine.  Have  you  not  seen  it  before  ?  It  has  been  in  the 
house  these  two  months ;"  and  you  rush  on  with  anecdote  and 
incident,  and  point  out  the  binding,  and  that  peculiar  trick  of 
gilding,  and  every  thing  else  you  can  think  of:  but  it  all  will  not 
do;  you  can  not  rub  out  that  roguish,  arithmefical  smile. 
People  may  talk  about  the  equality  of  the  sexes !  They  are  not 
equal.  The  silent  smile  of  a  sensible,  loving  woman,  will  van- 
quish ten  men.  Of  course  you  repent,  and  in  time  form  a  habit 
of  repenting. 

9.  Another  method,  which  will  be  found  peculiarly  effective, 
is,  to  make  a  present  of  some  fine  work  to  your  wife.  Of  course, 
whether  she  or  you  have  the  name  of  buying  it,  it  will  go  into 
your  collection  and  be  yours  to  all  intents  and  purposes.  But, 
it  stops  remark  in  the  presentation.  A  ^^'ife  could  not  reprove 
you  for  so  kindly  thinking  of  her.  No  maiter  what  she  suspects, 
she  will  say  nothing.  And  then  if  there  are  three  or  four  more 
works,  which  have  come  home  wifli  the  gift-book — they  will 
pass,  through  the  favor  of  the  other. 

10.  These  are  pleasures  denied  to  wealth  and  old  bachelors. 
Indeed,  one  can  not  imagine  the  peculiar  pleasure  of  buying 
books,  if  one  is  rich  and  stupid.  There  must  be  some  pleasure, 
or  BO  ma»J^'  would  not  do  it.     But  the  full  flavor,  the  whole  rel- 

1 


THE  BAUCN's  last  BANQUET.  307 

ish  of  delight  only  comes  to  those  who  are  so  poor  that  they 
must  engineer  for  every  book.  They  set  down  before  them,  and 
besiege  them.  They  are  captured.  Each  book  has  a  secret 
history  of  ways  and  means.  It  reminds  you  of  subtle  devices 
by  which  you  insured  and  made  it  yours,  in  spite  of  poverty ! 

H.  W.  Beechkk.' 


97.  The  Bakon's  Last  Banquet. 

I. 

O'ER  a  low  couch  the  setting  sun  had  thrown  its  latest  ray, 
Where,  in  his  last  strong  agony,  a  dying  warrior  lay, — 
The  stern  old  Baron  Rudiger,  whose  frame  had  ne'er  been  bent 
By  wasting  pain,  till  time  and  toil  its  iron  strength  had  spent. 

n. 

"They  come  around  me  here,  and  say  my  days  of  lifc  are  o'er, — 
That  I  shall  mount  my  noble  steed  and  lead  my  band  no  more; 
They  come,  and,  to  my  beard,  they  dare  to  tell  me  now  that  I, 
Their  own  liege  lord  and  master  born,  that  I — ha!  ha! — must  die 

III. 
And  what  is  death  ?     I've  dared  him  6ft,  before  the  Painim' 
spear ; 
ITiink  ye  he's  enter'd  at  my  gate — has  come  to  seek  me  here  ? 
I've  met  him,  faced  him,  scorn'd  him,  when  the  fight  was  raging 

hot ; — 
ril  try  his  might,  I'll  brave  his  power  I — defy,  and  fear  him  not ! 

IV. 

**  Ho  1  sound  the  tocsin'  from  my  tower,  and  fire  the  culVerin,^ 
Bid  each  retainer  arm  with  speed ;  call  every  vassal  in. 
Up  with  my  banner  on  the  wall, — the  banquet-board  prepare, — 
Throw  wide  the  portal  of  my  hall,  and  bring  my  ^vmor  there !" 

V. 

A  hundred  hands  were  busy  then  :  the  banquet  forth  was  spread, 
And  rung  the  heavy  oaken  floor  wifli  many  a  martial  tread ; 


^  See  Biograpbical  Sketch,  p.  71. — 'P^i'nim,  pagan  ;  infidel. — 'T5c'- 
Bin,  a  bell  for  giving  alarm. — ^Cul'verin,  along,  slerder  cannon,  to 
carry  a  ball  a  great 'distance. 


308  NATIONAL    FIPTH    KP:AI)KK. 

While  from  the  rich,  dark  tracer}',  along  the  vaulted  ^all, 
Lights  gleam Vi  on  harness,  plume,  and  spear,  o'er  the  proud  oU 
Gothic  hall. 

VI. 

Fast  hurrying  through  the  outer  gate,  the  mail'd  retainers  pour'd. 
On  through  the  portal's  frowning  arch,  and  throng'd  around  the 

board ; 
While  at  its  head,  within  his  dark,  carved,  oaken  chair  of  state, 
Arra'd  cap-a-pie,  stern  Rudiger,  with  girded  falchion,  sate. 

VII. 

"  Fill  every  bSaker  up,  my  men ! — pour  forth  the  cheering  wine ! 
There's  life  and  strength  in  every  drop, — thanksgiving  to  the 

vine! 
Are  ye  all  there,  my  vassals  true  ? — mine  eyes  are  waxing  dim : 
Fill  round,  my  tried  and  fearless  ones,  each  goblet  to  the  brim ! 

VIII. 

"  Ye're  there,  but  yet  I  see  you  not ! — draw  forth  each  trusty 

sword. 
And  let  me  hear  your  faithful  steel  clash  once  around  my  board! 
I  hear  it  faintly  :   Louder  yet !     What  clogs  my  heavy  breath  ? 
Up,  all ! — and  shout  for  Rudiger,  *  Defiance  unto  Death  !'  " 

IX. 

Bowl  rang  to  bowl,  steel  clang'd  to  steel,  and  rose  a  deafening  cry, 
That  made  the  torches  flare  around,  and  shook  the  flags  on  high: 
"Ho!    cravens!    do  ye  fear  him?     Slaves!    traitors!    have  ye 

flown  ? 
Ho !  cowards,  have  ye  left  me  to  meet  him  here  alone  ? 

X. 

"  But  I  defy  him ! — let  him  come !"  Down  rang  the  massy  cup, 
Wliile  from  its  sheath  the  ready  blade  came  flashing  half-way  up; 
And,  wifli  the  black  and  heavy  plumes  scarce  trembling  on  his 

head, 
There,  in  his  dark,  carved,  oaken  chair,  old  Rudiger  sat — dead ! 

Albert  G.  Gkeenb. 

Mr.  Greene  was  born  at  Providence,  Rhode  Island,  February  10,  1802.  He 
WHS  a  graduate  at  Brown  University  in  1820,  practiced  law  in  his  native  city  un- 
til 1834,  since  which  time  he  has  held  office  under  the  city  government     Oneol 


SELEar    PASSAGES    IN    PROSE.  309 

his  earliest  metrical  compositions  was  the  popular  ballad  of  "  Old  Grimes."  Hia 
poems,  which  were  principally  written  for  periodicals,  have  never  been  publish- 
ed in  a  collected  form.  One  of  his  longest  serious  ballads,  entitled  "  Cauonchet." 
is  published  ii  Updike's  "  History  of  the  Narraghansett  Chui'ch." 


98.  Select  Passages  m  Peose. 

I.  A  True  Man. — Scott.' 

The  man  whom  I  call  deserving  the  name,  is  one  whose 
thoughts  and  exertions  are  for  others  rather  than  himself, — 
whose  high  purpose  is  adopted  on  just  principles,  and  never  aban- 
doned while  heaven  or  earth  affords  means  of  accomplishing  it. 
He  is  one  who  will  neither  seek  an  indirect  advantage  by  a  spe- 
cious road,  nor  take  an  evil  path  to  secure  a  really  good  purpose. 
Such  a  man  were  one  for  whom  a  woman's  heart  should  beat 
constant  while  he  breathes,  and  break  when  he  dies. 

II.  A  True  Woman. — Scott. 

Her  very  soul  is  in  home,  and  in  the  discharge  of  all  those 
quiet  virtues  of  which  home  is  the  center.  Her  husband  will 
be  to  her  what  her  father  is  now — the  object  of  all  her  care,  so- 
licitude, and  affection.  She  will  see  nothing,  and  connect  her 
self  with  nothing,  but  by  or  through  him.  If  he  be  a  man  of 
sense  and  virtue,  she  will  sympathize  in  his  sorrows,  divert  his 
fatigues,  and  share  his  pleasures.  If  she  become  the  portion  of 
a  churlish  or  negligent  husband,  she  will  suit  his  taste  also,  for 
she  will  not  long  survive  his  unkindness. 

III.  The  Power  of  a  Word. — Landor.*^ 

On  words,  on  quibbles,  if  you  please  to  call  distinctions  so, 
rest  the  axis  of  the  intellectual  world.  A  winged  word  hath 
stuck  ineradicably  in  a  million  hearts,  and  envenomed  every 
hour  throughout  their  hard  pulsation.  On  a  winged  word  hath 
hung  the  destiny  of  nations.  On  a  winged  word  hath  humun 
wisdom  been  willing  to  cast  the  immortal  soul,  and  to  leave  it 

1  Sir  Walter  Scott,  one  of  the  ablest  and  most  extensive  writers  of 
prose  and  poetry  in  the  English  language,  was  born  at  Edinburgh,  Scot- 
land. August  15,  1771,  and  died  in  September,  1832. — '  Landoe,  see 
BioH-rapliicul  Sketcli.  p.  333. 


310  NATIONAL    FlI'TU    KEADEK. 

dependent  for  all  its  future  happiness.  It  is  because  a  word  is 
unsusceptible  of  explanation,  or  because  tliey  who  employed  it 
were  impatient  of  any,  that  enormous  evils  have  prevailed,  not 
only  against  our  common  sense,  but  against  our  common  hu- 
manity. 

IV.  Moral  Force  of  Example. — Judge  McLean. 

The  great  principles  of  our  republican  institutions  can  not  be 
jiropagated  by  the  sword.  This  can  be  done  by  moral  force, 
and  not  physical.  If  we  desire  the  political  regeneration  of  op- 
pressed nations,  we  must  show  them  the  simplicity,  the  grandeur, 
and  the  freedom  of  our  own  government.  We  must  recommend 
it  to  the  intelligence  and  virtue  of  other  nations  by  its  elevated 
and  enlightened  action,  its  purity,  its  justice,  and  the  protection 
it  affords  to  all  its  citizens,  and  the  liberty  they  enjoy.  And  if, 
in  this  respect,  we  shall  be  faithful  to  the  high  bequests  of  our 
fathers,  to  ourselves,  and  to  posterity,  we  shall  do  more  to  liber- 
alize other  governments,  and  emancipate  their  subjects,  than 
could  be  accomplished  by  millions  of  bayonets.  This  moral 
power  is  what  tyrants  have  most  cause  to  dread.  It  addresses 
itself  to  the  thoughts  and  the  judgment  of  men.  No  physical 
force  can  arrest  its  progress.  Its  approaches  are  unseen,  but  iti- 
consequences  are  deeply  felt.  It  enters  garrisons  most  strQngl) 
fortified,  and  operates  in  the  palaces  of  kings  and  emperors. 
We  should  cherish  this  power,  as  essential  to  the  preservation  of 
our  government^  and  as  the  most  efficient  means  of  ameliorating 
the  political  condition  of  our  race.  And  this  can  only  be  done 
by  a  reverence  for  the  laws,  and  by  the  exercise  of  an  elevated 
patriotism. 

V.  Law. — Hooker.' 

Of  Law  there  can  be  no  less  acknowledged  than  that  her  seat 
is  the  bosom  of  God ;  her  voice  the  harmony  of  the  world.  All 
things  in  heaven  and  earth  do  her  homage ;  the  v6ry  least  aa 


'  Richard  Hooker,  the  famous  author  of  "  Ecclesiastical  Polity,"  was 
born  about  1553,  at  the  village  of  Heavitree,  England.  In  1577  he  was 
leceived  Master  of  Arts  at  Oxford,  and  two  years  later  appointed  Pro- 
fessor of  Hebrew.  He  took  holy  orders  in  1584,  and  about  two  years 
subsequent  became  master  of  the  Temple,  in  London .  He  died  in  the 
rectory  of  Bishopsbourne,  Kent,  1600. 


TRUTH   AND   FALSEHOOD.  311 

feeling  her  care,  and  the  greatest  as  not  exempted  from  her 
power ; — both  angels  and  men,  and  creatures ,  of  what  condition 
soever,  though  each  in  diflferent  sort  and  manner,  yet  all  with 
uniform  consent,  admiring  her  as  the  mother  of  their  peace  and 

VI.  Truth  and  Falsehood. — Milton.' 

Though  all  the  winds  of  doctrine  were  let  loose  to  play  upon 
the  earth,  so  Truth  be  in  the  field,  we  do  injuriously,  by  licens- 
ing and  prohibiting,  to  doubt  her  strength.  Let  her  and  False- 
hood grapple :  who  ever  knew  Truth  put  to  the  worse  in  a  free 
and  open  encounter  ?  who  knows  not  that  Truth  is  strong,  next 
to  the  Almighty?  She  needs  no  policies,  nor  stratagems,  nor 
licensings,  to  make  her  victorious ;  those  are  the  shifts  and  de- 
fences that  error  uses  against  her  power.  Give  her  but  room, 
and  do  not  bind  her  when  she  sleeps ;  for  then  she  speaks  not 
true,  but  then  rather  she  turns  herself  into  all  shapes,  except  her 
own,  and  perhaps  tunes  her  voice  according  to  the  time,  until 
she  be  adjured  into  her  own  likeness. 


99.  Tkuth  akd  Falsehood. — An  Allegory. 

WHILE  the  world  was  yet  in  its  infancy,  Truth^  came  among 
mortals  from  above,  and  Falsehood  from  below.  Truth 
was  the  daughter  of  Jupiter^  and  Wisdom ;  Falsehood  was  the 
progeny  of  Folly  impregnated  by  the  wind.  They  advanced 
wifti  equal  confidence  to  seize  the  dominion  of  the  new  creation ; 
and  as  their  enmity  and  their  force  were  well  known  to  the 
celestials,  all  the  eyes  of  heaven  were  turned  upon  the  contest. 

2.  Truth  seemed  conscious  of  superior  power  and  juster  claim, 
and  therefore  came  on  towering  and  majestic,  unassisted,  and 
alone ;  Reason,  indeed,  always  attended  her,  but  appeared  her 
follower  rather  than  companion.  Her  march  was  slow  and 
stately,  but  her  motion  was  perpetually  progressive ;  and  when 
once  she  had  grounded  her  foot,  neither  gods  nor  mGn  could 
l^rce  her  to  retire. 

3.  Falsehood  always  endeavored  to  copy  the  mien  and  atti 

1  Milton,  see  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  582.— » Truth  (trfith).— • 
the  chief  of  the  gods  in  heathen  mythology. 


312  NATIONAL    FIFIH    KEADEK. 

tudes  of  Truth,  and  was  very  successful  in  the  arts  of  mimicry. 
She  was  surrounded,  animated,  and  supported  by  innumerable 
legions  of  Appetites  and  Passions,  but,  like  other  feeble  com- 
raandei's,  was  obliged  often  to  receive  law  from  her  allies.  Her 
motions  were  sudden,  irregular,  and  violent;  for  she  had  no 
steadiness  nor  constancy.  She  often  gained  conquests  by  hasty 
incursions,  which  she  never  hoped  to  keep  by  her  own  strength, 
but  maintained  by  the  help  of  the  Passions,  whom  she  generally 
found  resolute  and  faithful. 

4.  It  sometimes  happened  that  the  antagonists  met  in  full  op- 
position. In  these  encounters.  Falsehood  always  invested  her 
head  wifh  clouds,  and  commanded  Fraud  to  place  ambushes 
about  her.  In  her  left  hand  she  bore  the  shield  of  Impudence, 
and  the  quiver  of  Sophistry  rattled  on  her  shoulder.  All  the 
Passions  attended  at  her  call.  Vanity  clapped  her  wings  before, 
and  Obstinacy  supported  her  behind.  Thus  guarded  and  assist- 
ed, she  sometimes  advanced  against  Truth,  and  sometimes  waited 
the  attack ;  but  always  endeavored  to  skirmish  at  a  distance, 
perpetually  shifted  her  ground,  and  let  fly  her  Arrows  in  diflfer- 
ent  directions ;  for  she  certainly  found  that  her  strength  failed, 
whenever  the  eye  of  Truth  darted  full  upon  her. 

5.  Truth  had  the  awfiil  aspect  though  not  the  thunder  of  her 
father,  and  when  the  long  continuance  of  the  contest  brought 
them  near  to  one  another.  Falsehood  let  the  arms  of  Sophistry 
fall  from  her  grasp,  and,  holding  up  the  shield  of  Impudence 
wifti  both  her  hands,  sheltered  herself  amongst  the  Passions. 
Truth,  though  she  was  often  wounded,  always  recovered  in  a 
short  time ;  but  it  was  common  for  the  slightest  hurt  received 
by  Falsehood,  to  spread  its  malignity  to  the  neighboring  parts, 
and  to  burst  open  again  when  it  seemed  to  have  been  cured. 

6.  Falsehood,  in  a  short  time,  found  by  experience  that  her 
superiority  consisted  only  in  the  celerity  of  her  course,  and  the 
changes  of  her  posture.  She  therefore  ordered  Suspicion  to 
beat  the  ground  before  her,  and  avoided  wi&  great  care  to  cross 
the  way  of  Truth,  who,  as  she  never  varied  her  point,  but  moved 
constantly  upon  the  same  line,  was  easily  escaped  by  the  oblique 
and  dgs'ultory  movements,  the  quick  retreats  and  active  doubles, 
which  Falsehood  always  practiced,  when  the  enemy  began  to 
raise  terror  by  her  pnproach. 


TRUTH    AND    FALSEHOOD.  313 

Y.  By  this  procedure,  Falsehood  every  hour  encroacht  1  upon 
the  world,  and  extended  her  empire  througli  all  climes  and  re- 
gions. Wherever  she  carried  her  victories,  she  left  the  Passions 
in  full  authority  behind  her ;  who  were  so  well  pleased  with 
command,  that  they  held  out  with  great  obstinacy,  when  Truth 
came  to  seize  their  posts,  and  never  failed  to  retard  her  progress, 
though  they  could  not  always  stop  it:  they  yielded  at  last  with 
great  reluctance,  frequent  rallies,  and  sullen  submission ;  and  al- 
ways inclined  to  revolt  when  Truth  ceased  to  awe  them  by  her 
immediate  presence. 

8.  Tr-ath,  who,  when  she  first  descended  from  the  heavenly 
palaces,  expected  to  have  been  received  by  universal  acclama- 
tion, cherished  wifh  kindness,  heard  with  obedience,  and  invited 
to  spread  her  influence  from  province  to  province,  now  found, 
that  wherever  she  came,  she  must  force  her  passage.  Every  in- 
tellect was  precluded  by  Prejudice,  and  every  heart  preoccupied 
by  Passion.  She,  indeed,  advanced,  but  she  advanced  slowly , 
and  often  lost  the  conquests  which  she  left  behind  her,  by  sud 
den  insurrections  of  the  Appetites,  that  shook  off  their  alle 
giiince,  and  ranged  themselves  under  the  banner  of  her  enemy 

9.  Truth,  however,  did  not  grow  weaker  by  the  struggle,  for 
her  vigor  was  unconquerable ;  yet  she  was  provoked  to  see  her- 
self baffled  and  impeded  by  an  enemy,  whom  she  looked  on  wifli 
contempt,  and  who  had  no  advantage  but  such  as  she  owed  to 
inconstancy,  weakness,  and  artifice.  She  therefore,  in  the  anger 
of  disappointment,  called  upon  her  father  Jupiter  to  reestablish 
her  in  the  skies,  and  leave  mankind  to  the  disorder  and  misery 
which  they  deserved,  by  submitting  willingly  to  the  usurpation 
of  Falsehood. 

10.  Jupiter  compassionated  the  world  too  much  to  grant  her 
request,  yet  was  willing  to  ease  her  labors  and  mitigate  h-er  vex- 
.^tion.  lie  commanded  her  to  consult  the  Muses  by  what  meth- 
od she  might  obtain  an  easier  reception,  and  reign  without  the 
toil  of  incessant  war.  It  was  then  discovered  that  she  obstruct- 
ed her  own  progress  by  the  severity  of  her  aspect  anl  the 
Bolemnity  of  her  dictates;  and  that  men  would  never  willingly 
udmit  her,  till  they  ceased  to  fear  her;  since,  by  giving  them- 
selves up  to  Falsehood,  they  seldom  made  any  sacrifice  of  their 
ease  or  ple}u«;ure,  because  she  took  the  shape  that  was  most  eo 

14 


314  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

gaging,  iina  always  suffered  herself  to  be  dressed  and  painted  by 
Desire. 

11.  The  Muses  wove,  in  the  loom  of  Pallas,'  a  loose  and 
changeable  robe,  like  that  in  which  Falsehood  captivated  her 
admirers :  wifti  this  they  invested  Truth,  and  named  her  Fiction. 
She  now  went  out  again  to  conquer  with  more  success ;  foi 
when  she  demanded  entrance  of  the  Passions,  they  often  mis- 
took her  for  Falsehood,  and  delivered  up  their  charge;  bnl 
when  she  had  once  taken  possession,  she  was  soon  disrobed  by 
licason,  and  shone  out,  in  her  original  form,  with  native  efful- 
gence and  resistless  dignity.  Dr.  Johnson." 


100.  The  Phantom  Ship. 

I. 

THE  breeze  had  sunk  to  rest,  the  noonday  sun  was  high. 
And  ocean's  breast  lay  motionless  beneath  a  cloudless  sky. 
There  was  silence  in  the  air,  there  was  silence  in  the  deep ; 
And  it  scem'd  as  though  that  burning  calm  were  nature's  final 
sleep. 

II. 
The  mid-day  watch  was  set,  beneafli  the  blaze  of  light. 
When  there  came  a  cry  from  the  tall  mast-head,  "  A  sail !  a  sail, 

'   in  sight !" 
And  o'er  the  far  hori'zon  a  snowy  speck  appear'd. 
And  every  eye  was  strain'd  to  watch  the  vessel  as  she  near'd. 

III. 
There  was  no  breath  of  air,  yet  she  bounded  on  her  way. 
And  the  dancing  waves  around  her  prow  were  flashing  into  spray. 
She  answer'd  not  their  hail,  alongside  as  she  pass'd : 
There  were  none  who  trod  her  spacious  deck ;  not  a  seaman  on 
the  mast; 

IV. 

No  hand  to  guide  her  helm  :  ySt  on  she  held  her  course ; 
She  swept  along  that  waveless  sea,  as  wifli  a  tempest's  force : 

*  Pallas,  one  of  the  names  of  Minerva,  the  goddess  of  wisdom,  call 
ed  also  Athena  and  Tbitotonia.— '  See  Biograplucal  Sketch,  p.  230. 


THE    PHANTOM    SHIP.  315 

A  silence,  as  of  death,  was  o'er  that  vessel  spreavl  • 
She  seern'd  a  thing  of  another  world,  the  wo>ld  where  dwell  the 
dead. 

V. 

She  pass'd  away  from  sight,  the  deadly  calm  was  o'er, 

And  the  spell-bound  ship  pursued  her  cdurse  before  the  breeze 

once  more ; 
And  clouds  across  the  sky  obscured  the  noonday  sun, 
And  the  winds  arose  at  the  tempest's  call,  before  the  day  was  done 

VI. 

Midnight — and  still  the  storm  raged  wrathfully  and  loud, 

And  deep  in  the  trough  of  the  heaving  sea  labor'd  that  vessel 

proud : 
There  was  darkness  all  around,  save  where  lightning  flashes  keen 
Vlay'd  on  the  crests  of  the  broken  waves,  and  lit  the  depths  be- 
tween. 

VII. 

Around  her  and  below,  the  waste  of  waters  roar'd. 

And  answer'd  the  crash  of  the  falling  masts  as  they  cast  then. 

overboard. 
At  eveiy  billow's  shock  her  quivering  timbers  strain ; 
And  as  she  rose  on  a  crested  wave,  that  strange  ship  pass'd  again. 

VIII. 

And  o'er  that  stormy  sea  she  flew  before  the  gale, 

Yet  she  had  not  struck  her  lightest  spar,  nor  furl'd  her  loftiest  sail. 

Another  blinding  flash,  and  nearer  yet  she  seemVl, 

And  a  pale  blue  light  along  her  sails  and  o'er  her  rigging  gleam'd. 

IX. 

But  it  sliow'd  no  seaman's  form,  no  hand  her  course  to  guide ; 
And  to  their  signals  of  distress  the  Avinds  alone  replied. 
The  Phantom  Ship  pass'd  on,  driven  o'er  her  pathless  way, 
But  helplessly  the  sinking  wreck  amid  the  breakers  lay. 

X. 

The  angry  tempest  ceased,  the  winds  were  hush'd  to  sleep, 
And  calm  and  bright  the  sun  again  ihone  out  upon  the  deep. 
l>iit  that  gallant  ship  .10  more  shall  roam  the  ocean  free; 
She  has  n*arhM  lier  final  havcti.  beneafli  the  dark  blue  sea. 


316  NATIONAL   FIFl'H   READER.  . 

XI. 

And  many  a  hardy  seaman,  who  fears  nor  storm  nor  fight, 
Y6t  trembles  when  the  Phantom  Ship  drives  past  his  watch  \\ 

night ; 
For  it  augurs  death  and  danger :  it  bodes  a  watery  grave, 
Wifli  sea-weeds  for  his  pillow — for  his  shroud,  the  wandering  wave 

Anon. 


101.  Count  Fathom's  Adventure. 

FATHOM  departed  from  the  village  that  same  afternoon  un- 
der the  auspices  of  his  conductor,  and  found  himself  be- 
nighted in  the  midst  of  a  ftrcst,  far  from  the  habitations  of  men. 
The  darkness  of  the  night,  the  silence  and  solitude  of  the  place, 
the  indistinct  images  of  the  trees  that  appeared  on  every  side 
stretching  their  extravagant  arms  athwart  the  gloom,  conspired 
wifih  the  dejection  of  spirits  occasioned  by  his  loss  to  disturb  his 
fiincy,  and  raise  strange  phantoms  in  his  imagination.  Although 
he  was  not  naturally  superstitious,  his  mind  began  to  be  invaded 
with  an  awful  horror,  that  gradually  prevailed  over  all  the  con- 
solations of  reason  and  philosophy ;  nor  was  his  heart  free  from 
the  terrors  of  assassination. 

2.  In  order  to  dissipate  these  disagreeable  reveries,  he  had  re- 
course to  the  conversation  of  his  guide,  by  whom  he  was  enter- 
tained with  tjie  history  of  divers  travelers  who  had  been  robbed 
and  murdered  by  ruffians,  whose  retreat  was  in  the  recesses  of 
that  very  wood.  In  the  midst  of  this  communication,  which  did 
not  at  all  tend  to  the  elevation  of  our  hero's  spirits,  the  con- 
ductor made  an  excuse  for  dropping  behind,  while  our  traveler 
jogged  on  in  expectation  of  being  joined  again  by  him  in  a  few 
minutes.  lie  was,  however,  disappointed  in  that  hope :  the  sound 
of  the  horse's  feet  by  degrees  grew  more  and  more  faint,  and  at 
last  altogether  died  away. 

3.  Alarmed  at  this  circumstance,  Fataom  halted  in  the  road, 
and  listened  with  the  most  fearful  attention;  but  his  sense  of 
hearing  was  saluted  with  naught  but  the  dismal  sighings  of  the 
trees,  that  seemed  to  foretell  an  approaching  storm.  According- 
Iv,  the  heavons  contracted  a  more  dreary  aspect,  the  lightn'ng 


317 

began  to  gleam,  the  tlinnder  to  roll,  and  tlie  tempest,  raising  it& 
voice  to  a  tremendous  roar,  descended  in  a  torrent  of  rain. 

4.  In  this  emergency,  the  foititade  of  our  hero  was  almost 
quite  overcome.  So  many  concurring  circumstances  of  danger 
and  distress  might  have  appalled  the  most  undaunted  breast ; 
what  impression  then  must  they  have  made  upon  the  mind  of 
Ferdinand,  who  was  by  no  means  a  man  to  set  fear  at  defiance ! 
Indeed,  he  had  well-nigh  lost  the  use  of  his  reflection,  and  was 
actually  invaded  to  the  skin,  before  he  could  recollect  himself 
so  far  as  to  quit  the  road,  and  seek  for  shelter  among  the  thick- 
ets that  surrounded  him. 

5.  Having  rode  some  furlongs  into  the  forest,  he  took  his  sta- 
tion under  a  tuft  of  tall  trees,  that  screened  him  from  the  storm, 
and  in  that  situation  called  a  council  wifh  himself,  to  deliberate 
upon  his  next  excursion.  He  persuaded  himself  that  his  guide 
had  deserted  him  for  the  present,  in  order  to  give  intelligence  of 
a  traveler  to  some  aiancc  of  robbers  with  whom  ho  was  connect- 
ed ;  and  that  he  must  of  necessity  fall  a  prey  to  those  banditti, 
unless  he  should  have  the  good  fortune  to  elude  their  search, 
and  disentangle  himself  from  the  mazes  of  the  wood. 

6.  Harrowed  wifli  these  apprehensions,  he  resolved  to  com- 
mit himself  to  the  mercy  of  the  hurricane,  as  of  two  evils  the 
leafet,  and  penetrate  straight  forward  through  some  devious  open- 
ing, until  he  should  be  delivered  from  the  forest.  For  this  pur- 
pose he  turned  his  horse's  head  in  a  line  quite  contrary  to  the 
direction  of  the  high  road  which  he  had  left,  on  the  supposition 
that  the  robbers  would  pursue  that  tract  in  quest  of  him,  and  that 
they  would  never  dream  of  his  deserting  the  highway  to  traverse 
an  unknown  forest  amidst  the  darkness  of  such  a  boisterous 
night. 

7.  After  he  had  continued  in  this  progress  through  a  succes- 
sion of  groves,  and  bogs,  and  thorns,  and  brakes,  by  which  not 
only  his  clothes,  but  also  his  skin  suffered  in  a  grievous  manner, 
while  every  nerve  quivered  wifli  eagerness  and  dismay,  he  at 
length  reached  an  open  plain,  and  pursuing  his  course,  in  full 
hope  of  arriving  at  some  village  where  his  life  would  be  safe,  he 
descried  a  rushlight,  at  a  distance,  which  he  looked  upon  as  the 
star  of  his  good  foilur.e ;  and  riding  toward  it  at  full  speed,  ar- 
rived at  the  door  of  a  one  cottaoje,  into  which  he  was  admitted 


JI18  NATIONAL    FIFPH    EEADER. 

by  a!i  old  woman,  who,  understanding  he  was  a  bewildered  trav- 
eler, received  him  with  great  hospitality. 

8.  When  he  learned  from  his  hostess  that  there  was  not 
another  house  within  three  leagues,  and  that  she  could  accom- 
modate him  with  a  tolerable  boH,  and  his  horse  with  lodging 
and  oats,  he  thanked  Heaven  for  his  good  fortune  in  stumbling 
upon  this  humble  habitation,  and  determined  to  pass  the  night 
under  the  protection  of  the  old  cottager,  who  gave  him  to  un- 
derstand, that  her  husband,  who  was  a  fagot-maker,  had  gone  to 
the  next  town  to  dispose  of  his  merchandise,  and  that  in  all  prob- 
abilitv  he  would  not  return  till  the  next  morninor  on  account  of 
the  tempestuous  night. 

9.  Ferdinand  sounded  the  beldam  wifti  a  thousand  artful  in- 
terrogations, and  she  answered  with  such  an  appearance  of  truth 
and  simplicity,  that  he  concluded  his  person  was  quite  secure; 
and,  after  having  been  regaled  with  a  dish  of  eggs  and  bacon, 
desired  she  would  conduct  him  into  the  chamber  where  she  pro- 
posed he  should  take  his  repose.  He  was  accordingly  ushered 
up  by  a  sort  of  ladder  into  an  apartment  furnished  with  a  stand- 
ing bed,  and  almost  half  filled  with  trusses  of  straw.  He  seemed 
extremely  well  pleased  with  his  lodging,  which  in  reality  exceed- 
ed his  expectations ;  and  his  kind  landlady,  cautioning  him 
against  letting  the  candle  approach  the  combustibles,  took  her 
leave,  and  locked  the  door  on  the  outside. 


102.   CotJNT  Fathom's  Adventure — concluded. 

FATHOM,  whose  own  principles  taught  him  to  be  suspicious, 
and  ever  upon  his  guard  against  the  treachery  of  his  fellow- 
creatures,  could  have  dispensed  wifh  this  instance  of  her  care  in 
confining  her  guest  to  her  chamber ;  and  began  to  be  seized  with 
strange  fancies,  when  he  observed  that  there  was  no  bolt  on  the 
msi<le  of  the  door,  by  which  he  might  secure  himself  from  intru- 
sion. In  consequence  of  these  suggestions,  he  proposed  to  take 
an  accurate  sur'vey  of  every  object  in  the  apartment,  and,  in  the 
course  of  his  inqui'ry,  had  the  mortification  to  find  the  dead 
body  of  a  man,  still  warm,  who  had  been  lately  sta)>bed,  and  con- 
cealed bencafti  several  bundles  of  straw. 


COUNT  tATHUM's  ADVENTUKE.  310 

2.  Such  a  discovery  could  not  fail  to  fill  the  breast  of  our  he 
W'th  unspeakable  ho,rror ;  for  he  concluded  that  he  himself  would 
unicrg-o  the  same  fate  before  morning,  without  the  interposition 
of  a  miracle  in  his  favor.  In  the  first  transports  of  his  dread  he 
ran  to  the  window,  with  a  view  to  escape  by  that  outlet,  and 
found  his  flight  cfi'ectually  obstructed  by  divers  strong  bars  of 
iron.  Then  his  heart  began  to  palpitate,  his  hair  to  bristle  up 
and  his  knees  to  totter :  his  thoughts  teemed  with  presages  of 
death  and  destruction;  his  conscience  rose  up  in  judgment 
against  him ;  and  he  underwent  a  severe  paroxysm  of  dismay 
and  distraction.  His  spirits  were  agitated  into  a  state  of  fer- 
mentation that  produced  an  energy  akin  to  that  which  is  inspired 
by  brandy  or  other  strong  liquors ;  and,  by  an  impulse  that 
seemed  supernatural,  he  was  immediately  hurried  into  measures 
for  his  own  preservation. 

3.  What  upon  a  less  in'tcresting  occasion  his  imagination 
durst  not  propose,  he  now  executed  without  scruple  or  remorse. 
He  undressed  the  corpse  that  lay  bleeding  among  the  straw,  and 
conveying  it  to  the  bed  in  his  arms,  deposited  it  in  the  attitude 
of  a  person  who  sleeps  at  his  ease ;  then  he  extinguished  the 
light,  took  possession  of  the  place  from  whence  the  body  had 
been  removed,  and,  holding  a  pistol  ready  cocked  in  each  hand, 
waited  for  the  sequel  with  that  determined  purpose  which  is 
often  the  immediate  production  of  despair. 

4.  About  midnight  he  heard  the  sound  of  feet  ascending  the 
ladder ;  the  door  was  softly  opened ;  he  saw  the  shadow  of  two 
men  stalking  tow'ard  the  bed ;  a  dark  lantern  being  unshrouded, 
directed  their  aim  to  the  supposed  sleeper ;  and  he  that  held  it 
thrust  a  poniard  to  his  heart.  The  force  of  the  blow  made  a 
compression  on  the  chest,  and  a  sort  of  groan  issued  from  the 
windpipe  of  the  defunct :  the  stroke  w^as  repeated  without  pro- 
ducing a  repetition  of  the  note,  so  that  the  assassins  concluded 
the  work  was  efi"cctQally  done,  and  retired  for  the  present,  with 
a  design  to  return  and  rifle  the  deceased  at  their  leisure. 

5.  Never  had  our  hero  spent  a  moment  in  such  agony  as  he 
felt  during  this  operation.  The  whole  surface  of  his  body  was 
covered  wifh  a  cold  sweat,  ani  his  nerves  were  relaxed  with  a 
universal  palsy.  In  short,  he  remained  in  a  trance,  that  in  all 
probability  contributed  to  his  safety ;  for  had  he  retained  the  use 


320  NATIONAL   FIFTH   KEADEU. 

of  his  senses,  he  might  have  been  discovered  by  the  trausporta 
of  his  fear.  The  first  use  he  made  of  his  retrieved  recollection, 
was  to  perceive  that  the  assassins  had  !eft  the;  door  open  in  their 
retreat ;  and  he  would  have  instantly  availed  himself  of  this  their 
neglect,  by  sallying  out  upon  them  at  the  hazard  of  his  life,  had 
not  he  been  restrained  by  a  conversation  he  overheard  in  the 
room  below,  importing  that  the  ruffians  were  going  to  set  out 
upon  another  expedition,  in  hopes  of  finding  more  prey. 

6.  They  accordingly  departed,  after  having  laid  strong  injunc- 
tions on  the  old  woman  to  keep  the  door  fast  locked  during  their 
absence ;  and  Ferdinand  took  his  resolution  without  further  de- 
lay. So  soon  as,  by  his  conjecture,  the  robbers  were  at  a  suf- 
ficient distance  from  the  house,  he  rose  from  his  lurking-place, 
moved  softly  toward  the  bed,  and  rummaging  the  pockets  of  the 
deceased,  found  a  purse  well  stored  wifh  ducats,  of  which,  to- 
gether with  a  silver  watch  and  a  diamond  ring,  he  immediately 
possessed  himself  without  scruple ;  and  then,  descending  with 
great  care  and  circumspection  into  the  lower  apartment,  stood 
before  the  old  beldam,  before  she  had  the  least  intimation  of  his 
approach. 

7.  Accustomed  as  she  was  to  the  trade  of  blood,  the  hoary 
hag  did  not  behold  this  apparition  without  giving  signs  of  infi- 
nite terror  and  astonishment.  Believing  it  was  no  other  than 
the  spirit  of  her  second  guest,  who  had  been  murdered,  she  fell 
upon  her  knees,  and  began  to  recommend  herself  to  the  protec- 
tion of  the  saints,  crossing  herself  wifli  as  much  devotion  as  if  she 
had  been  entitled  to  tho  particular  care  and  attention  of  Heaven 
Nor  did  her  anxiety  abate  when  she  was  undeceived  in  this  her 
supposition,  and  understood  it  was  no  phantom,  but  the  real  sub- 
stance of  the  stranger ;  who,  without  staying  to  upbraid  her  with 
the  enormity  of  her  crimes,  commanded  her,  on  pain  of  imme- 
diate death,  to  produce  his  horse;  to  which  being  conducted,  he 
set  her  on  the  saddle  without  delay,  and  mounting  behind,  in- 
vested her  with  the  management  of  the  reins,  swearing,  in  a 
most  peremptory  tone,  that  the  only  chance  for  her  life  was  in 
directing  him  to  the  next  town;  and  that  as  soon  as  she  should 
give  him  the  least  cause  tc  doubt  her  filelity  in  the  perfoimance 
of  that  task,  he  would  cq  the  irstant  act  the  part  of  her  execu- 
tioner. 


COUNT  fathom's  ADVENTURE.  321 

8.  This  declaration  had  its  effect  on  the  withered  Hecate, 
who,  wifh  many  supplications  for  mercy  and  forgiveness,  p'-omised 
to  guide  him  in  safety  to  a  certain  village  at  the  distance  of  two 
leagues,  where  he  might  lodge  in  security,  and  be  provided  with 
a  fresh  horse,  or  other  conveniences  for  pursuing  his  route.  On 
these  conditions  he  told  her  she  mio-ht  deserve  his  clemencv ; 
and  they  accordingly  took  their  departure  together,  she  being 
placed  astride  upon  the  saddle,  holding  the  bridle  in  one  hand, 
and  a  switch  in  the  other,  and  our  adventurer  sitting  on  the 
crupper  superintending  her  conduct,  and  keeping  the  muzzle  of 
a  pistol  close  to  her  ear.  In  this  equipage^  they  traveled  across 
part  of  the  same  wood  in  which  his  guide  had  forsaken  him ;  and 
it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  he  passed  his  time  in  the  most 
agreeable  reverie,  while  he  found  himself  involved  in  the  laby- 
rinth of  those  shades,  which  he  considered  as  the  haunts  of  rob- 
bery and  assassination. 

9.  Common  fear  was  a  comfortable  sensation  to  what  he  felt 
m  this  excursion.^  The  first  steps  he  had  taken  for  his  preser- 
vation were  the  effect  of  mere  instinct,  while  his  faculties  were 
extinguished  or  suppressed  by  despair ;  but  now,  as  his  reflection 
began  to  recur,  he  v/as  haunted  by  the  most  intolerable  appre- 
hensions. Every  whisper  of  the  wind  through  the  thickets  was 
swelled  into  the  hoarse  menaces  of  murder ;  the  shaking  of  the 
boughs  was  construed  into  the  brandishing  of  poniards;  and 
every  shadow  of  a  tree  became  the  apparition  of  a  ruffian  eager 
for  blood.  In  short,  at  each  of  these  occurrences  he  felt  what 
was  infinitely  more  tormenting  than  the  stab  of  a  real  dagger; 
and  at  every  fresh  fillip  of  his  fear,  he  acted  as  a  remembrancer  to 
his  conductress  in  a  new  volley  of  imprecations,  importing,  that 
her  life  wiis  absolutely  connected  with  his  opinion  of  his  own  safety. 


*  Hecate,  represented  in  mythology  as  a  mysterious  divinity  who 
ruled  in  heaven,  on  tlie  earth,  and  in  the  sea,  bestowing  on  mortals 
wealtli,  victory,  wisdom  ;  good  liiclc  to  sjiilors  and  hunters,  and  pros- 
perity to  youth  and  to  the  flocks  of  cattle.  She  was  afterward,  how- 
ever, regarded  by  the  Athenians  and  others  as  a  specti-al  being,  regard- 
less of  demons  and  terrible  phantoms  from  the  lower  worlds  who  taught 
sorcery,  Avitchcraft,  and  dwelt  at  places  where  two  roads  crossed,  on 
tombs,  and  near  the  blood  of  mm-dered  i)ersons. — '  Equipage  >hk'  we  pAj) 
*  Excursion  (eks  k^r'  shun). 


S22  NATIONAL    Firm    READER. 

]0.  UumaTi  nature  could  not  long  subsist  under  such  compli 
catcd  terror ;  but  at  last  he  found  himself  clear  of  the  forest,  and 
was  blessed  wifti  a  distant  view  of  an  inhabited  place.  lie  yield- 
ed to  the  first  importunity  of  the  beldam,  whom  he  dismissed  at 
a  very  small  distance  from  the  village,  after  he  had  earnestly  ex- 
horted her  to  quit  such  an  atrocious  course  of  life,  and  atone  for 
lier  past  crimes  by  sacrificing  her  associates  to  the  demands  of 
justice.  She  did  not  fail  to  vow  a  perfect  reformation,  and  to 
prostrate  herself  before  him  for  the  favor  she  had  found;  then 
she  betook  herself  to  her  habitation,  with  the  full  purpose  ot 
advising  her  f^dlow-murderers  to  repair  with  all  dispatch  to  the 
village  and  impeach  our  hero ;  who,  wisely  distrusting  her  pro- 
fessions, stayed  no  longer  in  the  place  than  to  hire  a  guide  for 
the  next  stage,  which  brought  him  to  the  city  of  Chalons-sur- 
Marne.'  Smollktt. 

Tobias  George  Smollett  was  born  in  the  county  of  Dumbarton,  Scotland,  in 
1721.  His  father,  a  younger  son  of  Sir  James  Smollett,  of  Bonhill,  iiaving  tlie<l 
early,  he  was  educated  by  his  grandfather,  in  Glasgow,  for  the  medical  profes- 
sion. At  nineteen,  his  grandfather  having  died  without  making  a  provision  for 
him,  the  young  author  proceeded  to  London  with  his  first  work,  "The  Regi- 
cide," which  he  attempted  to  bring  out  at  the  theaters.  Foiled  in  this  juvenile 
effort,  in  1741  he  became  a  surgeon's  mate  in  the  navy,  and  was  present  in  the 
unfortunate  expedition  to  Cartliagena,  spent  some  time  elsewhere  in  the  West 
Indies,  and  returned  to  England  in  1746.  Thenceforth  he  resided  chiefly  in 
London,  and  became  an  author  for  life.  His  first  novel,  '*  Roderick  Random," 
appeared  in  1748.  From  this  date  to  that  of  his  last  production,  Smollett  im- 
proved in  taste  and  judgment,  but  his  power  of  invention,  his  native  humor,  and 
his  knowledge  of  life  and  character,  are  as  conspicuous  in  this  as  in  any  of  hia 
works.  He  had  tine  poetic  talents,  but  wrote  no  extended  poem.  His  novel  of 
"  Count  Fathom"  ai)peared  in  17.)3.  I'he  above  scene,  extracted  from  this  work, 
13  universally  regarded  as  a  masterpiece  of  interest;  a  mixture  of  the  terrible  and 
the  i)robable  that  has  never  been  surpassed.  The  writing  is  as  fine  as  the  con- 
ceplioiL  In  1770,  Smollett  was  compelled  to  seek  for  health  in  a  warm  climate. 
He  took  up  his  residence  in  a  cottage  near  Leghorn.  Here,  just  before  his  death, 
in  the  autumn  of  1771,  he  finished  his  "  Humphrey  Clinker,"  tlie  most  rich,  va- 
ried, and  agreeable  of  all  his  novels. 


103.  Daekness. 


1.  TIL^ 

1  Th 


A.D  a  dream,  which  was  not  all  a  dream. 
The  bright  sun  was  extingnish'd,  and  the  stars 


'  Chalons-sur-Marnc  (shil  I6nff's5r  mam),  a  city  of  France,  capital  of 
tliri  dopavtmcnt  of  Marne,  on  the  light  bank  of  tluj  river  Marne,  90 
miles  E.  of  I'uris. 


DARKNESS.  323 

Did  waiKicr,  darkling,  in  the  eternal  space, 

Ilayless  and  pathless,  and  the  icy  earth 

Swuno:  blind  and  blackenins:  n  the  moonless  air. 

Morn  came,  and  went — and  came,  and  bronght  nc  dny, 

And  men  forgot  their  passions,  in  the  dread 

Of  this  their  desolation  ;  and  all  heai-ts 

Were  chill'd  into  a  selfish  prayer  for  light. 

And  they  did  live  by  watch-fires ;  and  the  thrones, 

The  palaces  of  crowned  kings,  the  huts, 

Tlie  habitations  of  all  things  which  dwell, 

WoYQ  burnt  for  beacons :  cities  were  consumed. 

And  men  were  gather'd  round  their  blazing  homes. 

To  look  once  more  into  each  other's  face. 

Happy  were  those  who  dwelt  within  the  eye 

Of  the  volcanoes  and  their  mountain  torch. 

A  fearful  hope  was  all  the  world  contain'd : 

Forests  were  set  on  fire  ;  but,  hour  by  hour. 

They  fell  and  faded  ;  and  the  crackling  trunks 

Extinguish'd  wifh  a  crash — and  all  was  black. 

The  brows  of  men,  by  the  despairing  light, 

Wore  an  unearthly  aspect,  as,  by  fits, 

The  flashes  fell  upon  them.     Some  lay  down, 

And  hid  their  eyes,  and  wept ;  and  some  did  rest 

Their  chins  upon  their  clenched  hands,  and  smiled ; 

And  others  hurried  to  and  fro,  and  fed 

Their  funeral  piles  with  fuel,  and  look'd  up. 

With  mad  disquietude,  on  the  dull  sky, 

The  pall  of  a  past  world ;  and  then  again. 

With  curses,  cast  them  down  upon  the  dust, 

And  gnash'd  their  teeth,  and  howl'd.  The  wild  birds  shriek  d, 

And,  terrified,  did  flutter  on  the  ground, 

And  flap  their  useless  wings :  the  wildest  brutes 

Came  tame,  and  tremulous ;  and  vipers  crawl'd 

And  twined  themselves  among  the  multitude. 

Hissing,  but  stingless — they  were  slain  for  food. 

And  War,  which  for  a  moment  was  no  more, 
Did  glut  himself  again : — a  meal  was  bought 
Wifli  blood,  and  each  sat  sullenly  apart, 


tJ24  NATIONAL   np^rii  kkadi:r. 

Gorging  liimsclf  in  gloom  :  no  love  was  left; 

All  earth  ".vas  but  one  tlioiiglit — and  that  was  death. 

Immediate  and  inglorious;  and  the  pang 

Of  famine  fed  upon  all  entrails.     Men 

Died ;  and  their  bones  were  tombless  as  their  flesh  : 

The  meager  by  the  meager  were  devour'd. 

Even  dogs  assail'd  their  masters, — all  save  one, 

And  he  w'as  faithful  to  a  corse,  and  kept 

The  birds,  and  beasts,  and  famish'd  men  at  bay, 

Till  hunger  clung  them,  or  the  drooping  dead 

Lured  their  lank  jaws:  himself  sought  out  no  food, 

But,  with  a  piteous,  and  peipetual  moan. 

And  a  quick,  desolate  cry,  licking  the  hand 

Which  answer'd  not  with  a  caress — he  died. 

4,  The  crowd  was  famish'd  by  degrees.     But  two 
Of  an  enormous  city  did  survive, 
And  they  were  enemies.     They  met  beside 
The  dying  embers  of  an  altar-place, 
Where  had  been  hcap'd  a  mass  of  holy  things 
For  an  unholy  usage.     They  raked  up. 
And,  shivering,  scraped,  with  their  cold,  skeleton  hands, 
The  feeble  ashes ;  and  their  feeble  breath 
Blew  for  a  little  life,  and  made  a  flame, 
Which  was  a  mockery.    Then  they  lifted 
Their  eyes  as  it  grew  lighter,  and  beheld 
Each  other's  aspects — saw,  and  shriek'd,  and  died  ; 
Even  of  their  mutual  hideousness  they  died, 
Unknowing  who  he  was,  upon  whose  brow 
Famine  had  written  Fiend. 

6.  The  world  was  void : 

The  populous  and  the  powerful  was  a  lump, 
Svnsonless,  /icrbless,  treeless,  manless,  lifeless;  ' 
A  lump  of  death,  a  chaos  of  hard  clay. 
The  rivers,  lakes,  and  ocean,  all  stood  still, 
And  nothing  stirr'd  within  their  silent  depths. 
Ships,  sailorless,  lay  rotting  on  the  sea, 
And  their  masts  fell  down  piecemeal :  as  they  droppM 
They  Jept  on  tht  ftbyss,  without  a  surge, — 


THE    RATTLESNAKE.  325 

The  waves  were  dead;  the  tides  were  iu  their  grave; 

The  mooii,  their  mistress,  had  expired  before ; 

The  winds  were  wither'd  in  the  stagnant  air, 

^nd  the  clouds  perish'd  :  Darkness  had  no  need 

Of  aid  from  them — she  was  the  universe.        Loki?  Byeok.* 


104.     The    IlATrLESNAKE.' 

"  TJ^  ^^^^  "0^  come — he  does  not  come,"  she  murmured,  au 
-1-1.  she  stood  contem'plating  the  thick  copse  spreading  before 
her,  and  forming  the  barrier  which  terminated  the  beautiful 
range  of  oaks  ^Yllich  constituted  the  grove.  How  beautiful  were 
the  green  and  garniture  of  tl Kit  little  copse  of  wood!  The  leaves 
were  thick,  and  the  grass  around  lay  folded  over  and  over  in 
bunches,  wifti  here  and  there  a  wild  flower,  gleaming  from  its 
green,  and  making  of  it  a  beautiful  carpet  of  the  richest  and 
most  various  texture.  A  small  tree  rose  from  the  center  of  a 
clump,  around  which  a  wild  grape  gadded  luxuriantly ;  and, 
with  an  incoherent  sense  of  what  she  saw,  she  lingered  before 
the  little  cluster,  seeming  to  survey'  that  which,  though  it  seemed 
to  fix  her  eye,  yet  failed  to  fill  her  thought.  Her  mind  wan- 
dered— her  soul  was  far  away;  and  the  objects  in  her  vision 
were  far  other  than  those  which  occupied  her  imagination. 

2.  Things  grew  indistinct  beneath  her  eye.  The  eye  rather 
slept  than  saw.  The  musing  spirit  had  given  holiday  to  the 
ordinary  senses,  and  took  no  heed  of  the  forms  that  rose,  and 
floated,  or  glided  away  before  them.  In  this  way,  the  leaf  de- 
tached made  no  impression  upon  the  sight  that  was  yet  bent 
upon  it ;  she  saw  not  the  bird,  though  it  whirled,  untroubled  bj 
a  fear,  in  wanton  circles  around  her  head  ;  and  the  blacksnako, 
with  the  rapidity  of  an  arrow,  darted  over  her  path  without 
jironsing  a  single  terror  in  the  form  that  otherwise  would  have 
shivered  at  its  mere  appearance.  And  yet,  though  thus  indistinct 
were  all  things  around  her  to  the  musing  eye  of  the  maiden,  her 
eye  was  yet  singularly  fixed — fastened,  as  it  were,  to  a  single 

'See  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  292.— '  From  "  The  Yemassee."  The 
heroine,  Bess  Mathews,  in  the  woods  wa'ts  the  aiming  of  her  lovftr. 


326  NAl'lUNAL     i'lFlll     KEADEK. 

spot — iTf^tlicred  and  controlcd  by  a  single  object,  and  glazed,  ap- 
parently, beneath  a  curious  fascination. 

3.  Uefore  the  maiden  rose  a  httle  clump  of  bushes, — bright 
tangled  leaves  flaunting  wide  in  glossiest  green,  with  vines  trail- 
ing over  them,  thickly  decked  with  blue  and  crimson  flowers. 
Her  eye  communed  vacantly  with  these ;  fastened  by  a  star-like 
shining  glance,  a  subtle  ray,  that  shot  out  from  the  circle  of 
green  leaves — seeming  to  be  their  very  eye — and  sending  out  a 
lurid  luster  that  seemed  to  stream  across  the  space  between,  and 
find  its  way  into  her  own  eyes.  Very  piercicg  and  beautiful 
was  that  subtle  brightness,  of  the  sweetest,  str  Ingest  power. 
And  now  the  leaves  quivered  and  seemed  to  float  away,  only  to 
return;  and  the  vines  waved  and  swung  around  in  fantastic 
mazes,  unfolding  ever-changing  varieties  of  form  and  color  to 
her  gaze  :  but  the  star-like  eye  was  ever  steadfast,  bright,  and 
gorgeous,  gleaming  in  their  midst,  and  still  fastened,  with  strange 
fondness,  upon  her  own.  How  beautiful  with  wondrous  intensi- 
ty did  it  gleam  and  dilate,  growing  larger  and  more  lustrous 
with  every  ray  which  it  sent  fyrth ! 

4.  And  her  own  glance  became  intense,  fixed  also ;  but  wifh 
a  dreaming  sense  that  conjured  up  the  wildest  fancies,  terribly 
beautiful,  that  took  her  soul  away  from  her,  and  wrapt  it  about 
as  with  a  spell.  She  would  have  fled,  she  would  have  flown ; 
but  she  had  not  power  to  move.  The  will  was  wanting  to  her 
flight.  She  felt  that  she  could  have  bent  forward  to  pluck  the 
gem-like  thing  from  the  bosom  of  the  leaf  in  which  it  seemed  to 
grow,  and  which  it  irradiated  with  its  bright  white  gleam ;  but 
ever  as  she  aimed  to  stretch  forth  her  hand,  and  bend  forward, 
she  heard  a  rush  of  wings,  and  a  shrill  scream  from  the  tree 
above  her, — such  a  scream  as  the  mSck-bird  makes,  when  angri- 
ly it  raises  its  dusky  crest,  and  flaps  its  wings  furiously  against 
its  slender  sides.  Such  a  scream  seemed  like  a  warning,  and 
though  yet  unawakcned  to  full  consciousness,  it  startled  her  an<l 
forbade  her  efl*ort.  More  than  once,  in  her  sur'vey  of  this  strange 
object,  had  she  heard  that  shrill  note,  and  still  had  it  cariicd  to 
lier  ear  the  same  note  of  warning,  aud  to  her  mind  the  same 
vague  consciousness  of  an  evil  presence. 

5.  But  the  star-like  eye  was  yet  upon  her  own — a  small, 
bright  oyc,  quick,  like  that  of  a  bird,  now  steady  in  its  place. 


TIIK    KA'riLESNAKE.  327 

and  o])servant  seemingly  only  of  hers,  now  dhiting  forward  wi& 
all  the  clustering  leaves  about  it,  and  shooting  up  toward  her,  as 
if  v^'ooing  her  to  seize.  At  another  moment  riveted  to  the  vine 
which  lay  around  it,  it  would  whirl  round  and  round,  dazzlingly 
bright  and  beautiful,  even  as  a  torch,  waving  hurriedly  by  night 
in  the  hands  of  some  playful  boy.  But,  in  all  this  time,  the 
glance  was  never  taken  from  her  own  :  there  it  grew,  fixed — a 
very  principle  of  light;  and  such  a  light — a  subtle,  burning, 
piercing,  fascinating  gleam,  such  as  gathers  in  vapor  above  the 
old  grave,  and  binds  us  as  we  look — shooting,  darting  directly 
into  her  eye,  dazzling  her  gaze,  defeating  its  sense  of  discrimina- 
tion, and  confusing  strangely  that  of  perception. 

6.  She  felt  dizzy,  for,  as  she  looked,  a  cloud  of  colors — bright, 
gay,  various  colors — floated  and  hung  like  so  much  drapery 
around  the  single  object  that  had  so  secured  her  attention  and 
spell-bound  her  feet.  Iler  limbs  felt  momently  more  and  more 
insecure :  her  blood  grew  cold,  and  slie  seemed  to  feel  the 
gradual  freeze  of  vein  by  vein,  throughout  her  person.  At  that 
moment  a  rustling  was  heard  in  the  branches  of  the  tree  beside 
her,  and  the  bird,  which  had  repeatedly  uttered  a  single  cry 
above  her,  as  it  were  of  warning,  Hew  away  from  his  station 
wifli  a  scream  more  piercing  than  ever.  This  movement  had 
the  effect  for  which  it  really  seemed  intended,  of  bringing  back 
to  her  a  portion  of  the  consciousness  she  seemed  so  totally  to 
have  been  deprived  of  before. 

V.  .She  strove  to  move  from  before  the  beautiful  but  tdrrible 
presence,  but  for  a  while  she  strove  in  vain.  The  rich,  star-like 
glance  still  riveted  her  own,  and  the  subtle  fascination  kept  her 
bound.  The  mental  energies,  however,  witli  the  moment  of  their 
greatest  trial,  now  gathered  suddenly  to  her  aid ;  and,  with  a 
despernte  effort,  but  with  a  feeling  still  of  annoying  uncertainty 
and  dread,  she  succeeded  partly  in  the  attempt,  and  threw  her 
arms  backward,  her  hands  grasping  the  neighboring  tree, — feeble, 
tottering,  and  depending  upon  it  for  that  support  which  her  own 
limbs  almost  entirely  denied  her.  With  her  movement,  how- 
ever, came  the  full  development  of  the  powerful  spell  and  dread- 
ful mystery  before  her.  As  her  feet  re^,cded,  though  but  a 
single  pace,  to  the  tree  against  which  she  now  rested,  the 
audibly  articulated  ring,  like  that  of  a  watch  wlien  wound  up 


.^28  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

with  the  verge  broken,  announced  the  nature  of  that  splendid 
yet  dangerous  presence,  in  the  form  of  the  monstrous  rattle- 
snake, now  but  a  few  feet  before  her,  lying  coiled  at  the  bot- 
tom of  a  beautiful  shrub,  with  which,  to  her  dreaming  eye, 
many  of  its  own  glorious  hues  had  become  associated. 

8.  She  was,  at  length,  conscious  enough  to  perceive  and  to 
feel  all  her  danger;  but  terror  had  denied  her  the  strength 
necessary  to  fly  from  her  dreadful  enemy.  There  still  the  eye 
glared  beautifully  bright  and  piercing  upon  her  own  ;  and,  seem- 
ingly in  a  spirit  of  sport,  the  insidious  rgptile  slowly  unwound 
himself  from  his  coil,  but  only  to  gather  himself  up  again  into 
his  muscular  rings,  his  great  flat  head  rising  in  the  midst,  and 
slowly  nodding,  as  it  were,  toward  her,  the  eye  still  peering 
deeply  into  her  own ; — the  rattle  still  slightly  ringing  at  inter- 
vals, and  giving  lorth  that  paralyzing  sound,  which,  once  heard, 
is  remembered  forever.  The  reptile  all  this  while  appeared  to 
be  conscious  of,  and  to  sport  wifli,  while  seeking  to  excite,  her 
tevroi-s.  Now,  with  his  flat  head,  distended  mouth,  and  curving 
neck,  would  it  dart  forward  its  long  form  toward  her, — its  fatal 
teeth,  unfolding  on  either  side  of  its  upper  jaws,  seeming  to 
threaten  her  with  instantaneous  death ;  while  its  powerful  eye 
shot  forth  glances  of  that  fatal  power  of  fascination,  malignantly 
bright,  which,  by  paralyzing,  with  a  novel  form  of  terror  and  of 
beauty,  may  readily  account  for  the  spell  it  possesses  of  binding  the 
feet  of  the  timid,  and  denying  to  fear  even  the  privilege  of  flight. 

9.  Could  she  have  fled !  She  felt  the  necessity ;  but  the 
power  of  her  limbs  was  gone !  and  there  still  it  lay,  coiling  and 
uncoiling,  its  arching  neck  glittering  like  a  ring  of  brazed  cop- 
per, bright  and  lurid ;  and  the  dreadful  beauty  of  its  eye  still 
fastened,  eagerly  contem'plating  the  victim,  while  the  pendulous 
rattle  still  rang  the  death-note,  as  if  to  prepare  the  conscious 
mind  for  the  fate  which  is  momently  approaching  to  the  blow. 
Meanwhile  the  stillness  became  death-like  wiih  all  surrounding 
objects.  The  bird  had  gone,  with  its  scream  and  rush.  The  breeze 
was  silent.  The  vines  ceased  to  wave.  The  leaves  faintly  quiver- 
ed on  their  stems.  The  serpent  once  more  lay  still ;  but  the  eye 
was  never  once  turned  away  from  the  victim.  Its  corded  mus- 
cles are  all  in  coil.  They  have  but  to  unclasp  s.iddenly,  and  the 
dreailful  folds  will  be  upon  her,  its  full  length,  an<l  the  fnia' 


THE    RATTLESNAKE.  329 

teeth  will  strike,  and  tlie  deadly  venom  wliicli  they  secrete  wiD 
mingle  with  the  life-blood  in  her  veins. 

10.  The  terrified  damsel,  her  full  consciousness  restored,  but 
not  her  strength,  feels  all  the  danger.  She  sees  that  the  sport 
of  the  terrible  reptile  is  at  an  end.  She  can  not  now  mistake 
the  horrid  expression  of  its  eye.  She  strives  to  scream,  but  the 
voice  dies  away,  a  feeble  gurgling  in  her  throat.  Her  tongue  is 
paralyzed ;  her  lips  are  sealed.  Once  more  she  strives  for  flight, 
but  her  limbs  refuse  their  office.  She  has  nothing  left  of  life 
but  its  fearful  consciousness.  It  is  in  her  despair,  that,  a  last 
effort,  she  succeeds  to  scream, — a  single  wild  cry,  forced  from  her 
by  the  accumulated  agony :  she  sinks  down  upon  the  grass 
before  her  enemy, — her  eyes,  however,  still  open,  and  still  look- 
ing upon  those  which  he  directs  forever  upon  them.  She  sees 
him  approach — now  advancing,  now  receding — now  swelling  in 
every  part  wifh  something  of  anger,  while  his  neck  is  arched 
beautifully,  like  that  of  a  wnld  horse  under  the  curb ;  until,  at 
length,  tired  as  it  were  of  play,  like  the  cat  with  its  victim,  she 
sees  the  neck  growing  larger  and  becoming  completely  bronzed, 
as  about  to  strike, — the  huge  jaws  unclosing  almost  directly 
above  her,  the  long  tubulated  fang,  charged  with  venom,  pro- 
truding from  the  cavernous  mouth  ;  and  she  sees  no  more. 
Insensibility  came  to  her  aid,  and  she  lay  almost  lifeless  under 
the  very  folds  of  the  monster. 

11.  In  that  moment  the  copse  parted ;  and  an  arrow,  piercing 
the  monster  through  and  through  the  neck,  bore  his  head  for- 
ward to  the  ground,  alongside  the  maiden,  w^hile  his  spiral  ex- 
tremities, now  unfolding  in  his  own  agony,  were  actually,  in 
part,  writhing  upon  her  person.  The  arrow  came  from  the  fu- 
gitive Occonestoga,  who  had  fortunately  reached  the  spot  in  sea- 
son, on  the  way  to  the  Block-House.  He  rushed  from  the  copse 
as  the  snake  fell,  and,  wifh  a  stick,  fearlessly  approached  him 
where  he  lay  tossing  in  agony  upon  the  grass.  Seeing  him  ad- 
vance, the  courageous  reptile  made  an  effort  to  regain  his  coil, 
shaking  the  fearful  rattle  violently  at  every  evolution  which  he 
took  for  that  purpose ;  but  the  arrow,  completely  passing  through 
his  neck,  opposed  an  unyielding  obstacle  to  the  endeavor ;  and 
finding  it  hopeless,  and  seeing  the  new  enemy  about  to  assault 
bim,  with  something  of  the  spirit  of  the  white  man  under  like 


330  NATlOiNAL    KltTH    KKADKR. 

ciicuinstances,  ho  turned  desperately  round,  and  striking  his 
cliarged  fangs,  so  that  they  were  riveted  in  the  wound  they 
made,  into  a  susceptible  part  of  his  own  body,  he  threw  himself 
over  with  a  single  convulsion,  and,  a  moment  after,  lay  dead  be- 
side the  utterly  unconscious  maiden.  W.  G.  Sisnis. 

William  Gilmore  Slmms  was  bom  at  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  Apri  17, 
180(j.  His  mother  died  while  he  was  an  infant,  and  his  father,  failing  soon  aiUnr 
as  a  merchant,  emigrated  to  the  West,  leaving  him  to  the  care  of  an  ag«d  and 
penurious  grandmother,  who  withheld  the  appropriations  necessary  for  his  edu- 
cation. His  love  of  books,  industry,  and  richly  endowed  intellect,  however, 
triumphed  over  every  obstacle.  He  wrote  for  the  press,  at  an  early  age,  on  a 
great  variety  of  subjects,  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar,  in  his  native  city,  at  the 
age  of  twenty-one.  He  did  not  long  practice  law,  but  turned  its  peculiar  train- 
ing to  the  uses  of  literature.  He  became  editor  and  proprietor  of  tlie  "  Cliarles- 
ton  City  Gazette,"  which,  though  conducted  with  industry  and  spirit,  proved  a 
failure,  owing  to  his  ojiposition  to  the  then  popular  doctrine  of  nullification.  He 
published  his  first  book,  "  Lyrical  and  other  Poems,"  in  18-25,  when  about 
eighteen  years  of  age,  followed  the  same  year  by  "  Early  Lays."  "  Atalautis," 
the  third  work  following,  a  successful  poem  with  the  publishers,  a  rarity  at  the 
time,  was  published  in  New  York,  in  1832.  It  is  written  in  smooth  blank  verse, 
interspersed  with  frequent  lyrics.  Th*-.  next  year  appeared  in  New  York  h's 
.Irst  tale,  "  Martin  Fabcr,"  written  in  the  intense  passionate  style,  which  se- 
cured at  once  public  attention.  Since  that  period  lie  has  written  numerous 
novels,  histories,  biographies,  and  poems,  and  has  contributed  largely  to  reviews 
and  magazines.  In  1849  he  became  editor  of  "  The  Southern  Quarterly  Re- 
view," which  was  revived  by  his  able  contributions  and  personal  influence.  ILj 
writings  are  characterized  by  their  earnestness,  sincerity,  and  thoroughness. 
His  shorter  stories  are  his  best  works.  Though  somewhat  wanting  in  elegance, 
they  have  unity,  completeness,  and  strength.  Mr.  Simms  has  his  summer  resi- 
dence at  Charleston,  and  a  plantation  at  Midway,  where  he  passes  his  winters, 
lie  received  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Laws  from  the  University  of  Alabama.  He 
hais  been  for  several  years  a  prominent  member  of  the  legislature  of  his  nativa 
State. 


105.  Roger  Ascham^  and  Lady  Jane  Grey.* 

Aschani.  Thou  art  going,  my  dear  young  lady,  into  a  most 
awful  state ;  thou  art  passing  into  matrimony  and  great  wealth. 

'  RooBR  AscuAM,  a  man  of  great  learning,  the  instructor  of  Queen 
Elizabeth,  was  born  in  1515,  and  died  in  1568. — 'Lady  Jaxk  Grky, 
daughter  of  the  Marquis  of  Dorset,  descended  from  the  royal  family  of 
England  by  both  parents,  was  born  in  1537.  The  Duke  of  Northumber- 
land having  prevailed  on  Edward  VI.  to  name  her  his  successor,  mar- 
ried his  son,  Lord  Guilford  Dudley,  to  her ;  and,  the  natien  having 
declared  in  favor  of  Mary,  they  were  both  executetl,  after  a  phantom 
royalty  of  nine  days,  on  the  12th  of  February,  1554  Lady  Janr  was 
only  in  her  seveuttienth  year,  and  was  remarkable  fc-  her  skill  in  the 


KMGkK    ASCllAM    AND    LADV    .lANK    GKKY  331 

G6i\  hatli  willed  it:  submit  in  tliMnkfulncr.s.  Tby  atfections  are 
rightly  placed  and  well  distributed.  Love  is  a  secondary  passion 
in  those  wbo  love  most,  a  primary  in  those  who  love  least.  He 
who  is  inspired  by  it  in  a  high  degree,  is  inspired  by  honor  in  a 
higher:  it  never  reaches  its  plenitude  of  growth  and  perfection 
but  in  the  most  exalted  minds.     Alas !  alas ! 

Jane.  What  aileth  my  virtuous  Ascham?  what  is  amiss? 
why  do  I  tremble  ? 

Ascham.  I  remember  a  sort  of  prophecy,  made  three  years 
ago :  it  is  a  prophecy  of  thy  condition  and  of  my  feelings  on  it. 
Recollectest  thou  who  wrote,  sitting  upon  the  sea-beach  the 
evening  after  an  excursion  to  the  Isle  of  Wight,  these  verses  ? — 

"  Invisibly  bright  water  I  so  like  air, 
On  looking  dowm  I  fear'd  thou  couldst  not  bear 
My  little  bark,  of  all  light  barks  most  light ; 
And  look'd  again,  and  drew  me  from  the  sight, 
And,  hanging  back,  breath '^d  each  fresh  gale  aghast, 
And  held  the  bench,  not  to  go  on  so  fast." 
Ja7ie.  I  was  very  childish  when  I  composed  them ;  and,  if  1 
had  thought  any  more  about  the  matter,  I  should  have  hoped 
you  had  been  too  generous  to  keep  them  in  your  memory  as 
witnesses  against  me. 

Ascham.  Nay,  they  are  not  much  amiss  for  so  young  a  girl, 
and  there  being  so  few  of  them,  I  did  not  reprove  thee.  Half 
an  hour,  I  thought,  might  have  been  spent  more  unprofitably ; 
and  I  now  shall  believe  it  firmly,  if  thou  wilt  but  be  led  by  them 
to  meditate  a  little  on  the  similarity  of  situation  in  which  thou 
then  wert  to  what  thou  art  now  in. 

Jane.  I  will  do  it,  and  whatever  else  you  command ;  for  I  am 
weak  by  nature  and  very  timorous,  unless  where  a  strong  sense 
of  duty  holdeth  and  supporteth  me.  There  God  acteth,  and  not 
his  creature.  Those  were  with  me  at  sea  who  would  have  been 
attentive  to  me  if  I  had  seemed  to  be  afraid,  even  though  wor- 
shipful men  and  women  were  in  the  company;  so  that  some- 
thing more  powerful  threw  my  fear  overboard.  Yet  I  never  will 
go  again  upon  the  water. 

classical,  Oriental,  and  modern  languages,  and  kw  the  sweetness  of  hci 
dispositiou. 


332  NATIONAL    FIFfH    READKK. 

Aschmn.  Exercise  that  beauteous  couple,  that  mind  and  body 
much  and  variously,  but  at  home,  at  home,  Jane  I  indoors,  and 
about  things  indoors ;  for  God  is  there,  too.  We  have  rocks  and 
quicksands  on  the  banks  of  our  Thames,'  0  lady  !  such  as  Ocean 
never  heard  of;  and  many  (who  knows  how  soon !)  may  be  in- 
gulfed  in  the  current  under  their  girden  walls. 

Jane.  Thoroughly  do  I  now  understand  you.  Y6s,  indeed,  I 
have  read  evil  things  of  courts ;  but  I  think  nobody  can  go  out 
bad  who  cntcreth  good,  if  timely  and  true  warning  shall  have 
been  given. 

Ascham.  I  see  perils  on  perils  which  thou  dost  not  see,  albeit 
thou  art  wiser  than  thy  poor  old  master.  And  it  is  not  because 
Love  hath  blinded  thee,  for  that  surpasseth  his  supposed  omnip- 
otence ;  but  it  is  because  thy  tender  heart,  having  always  leant 
affcotionately  upon  good,  hath  felt  and  known  nothing  of  evil. 
I  once  persuaded  thee  to  reflect  much ;  let  me  now  persuade 
thee  to  avoid  the  habitude  of  reflection,  to  lay  aside  books,  and 
to  gaze  carefully  and  steadfastly  on  what  is  under  and  before 
thee. 

Jane.  I  have  well  bethought  me  of  my  duties :  oh,  how  ex- 
tensive they  are !  what  a  goodly  and  fair  inheritance  1  But  tell 
me,  would  you  command  me  never  more  to  read  Cicero,'  and 
Epictetus,'  and  Plutarch,"  and  Polybius  ?*  The  others  I  do  re- 
sign ;  they  are  good  for  the  arbor  and  for  the  gravel-walk ;  yet 
leave  unto  me,  I  beseech  you,  my  friend  and  father,  leave  unto 
me  for  my  fireside  and  for  my  pillow,  truth,  eloquence,  courage, 
constancy. 

*  Thames  (tSmz),  the  principal,  though  not  the  longest  river  of  Eng- 
land.— 'Cicero,  seep.  143,  note  4. — 'EriCTE'ius,  a  stoic  philosopher, 
the  moralist  of  Home,  lived  about  90  years  after  Christ.  His  moral 
writings  are  justly  very  celebrated.— *  Plutarch,  an  eminent  ancient 
philosopher  and  Avriter,  author  of  '*  Parallel  Lives,"  which  contains 
the  biography  of  forty-six  distinguished  Greeks  and  Romans,  was  born 
in  Cha^ronea,  a  city  of  Boeotia,  about  60  years  after  Christ.  His  writ- 
ings, comprehended  under  the  title  of  "Moralia"  or  "  Ethical  Works," 
amount  to  upward  of  sixty.  They  are  pervaded  by  a  kind,  humane 
disposition,  and  a  love  of  every  thing  that  is  ennobling  and  excellent. — 
'PoLYu'ius,  a  celebrated  Greek  historian  and  statesman,  was  born  in 
Arcadia,  b.  c.  203.  He  wrote  a  "Universal  History"  in  forty  books,  ol 
which  we  have  only  five  complete,  and  an  abridgment  of  twelve  others; 


RUGEK    ASC11A.M    ANU    LADV    .lAXE    GUKY.  333 

A&chdm.  Read  them  on  tliy  marriage-bed,  on  thy  child  bed, 
on  thy  death-bed.  Thou  spotless,  undrooping  lily,  they  liave 
fenced  thee  right  well.  These  are  the  men  for  men  ;  these  are 
to  fashion  the  bright  and  blessed  creatures  whom  God  one  day 
shall  smile  upon  in  thy  chaste  bosom.  Mind  thou  thy  hus- 
band. 

Jane.  I  sincerely  love  the  youth  who  hath  espoused  me ;  I 
love  him  wifli  the  fondest,  the  most  solicitous  affection ;  I  pray 
to  the  Almighty  for  his  goodness  and  happiness,  and  do  forget, 
at  times — unworthy  supplicant ! — the  prayers  I  should  have  of- 
fered for  myself.  Never  fear  that  I  will  disparage  my  kind 
religious  teacher,  by  disobedience  to  my  husband  in  the  most 
trying  duties. 

Ascham.  Gentle  is  he,  gentle  and  virtuous ;  but  time  will 
harden  him :  time  must  harden  even  thee,  sweet  Jane !  Do 
thou,  complacently  and  indirectly,  lead  him  from  ambition. 

Jane.  He  is  contented  with  me  and  with  home. 

Ascham.  Ah,  Jane !  Jane !  men  of  high  estate  grow  tired  of 
contentedness. 

Jane.  He  told  me  he  never  liked  books  unless  I  read  them  tc 
him  :  I  will  read  them  to  him  every  morning ;  I  will  open  new 
worlds  to  him  richer  than  those  discovered  by  the  Spaniard ;  J 
will  conduct  him  to  treasures — oh  what  treasures ! — on  which 
he  may  sleep  in  innocence  and  peace. 

Ascham.  Rather  do  thou  walk  wifti  him,  ride  with  him,  play 

with  him — be  his  faery,  his  page,  his  every  thing  that  love  and 

poetry  have  invented, — but  watch  him  well ;   sport  with  his 

fancies ;  turn  them  about  like  the  ringlets  round  his  cheek ;  and 

if  ever  he  meditate  on  power,  go  toss  up  thy  baby  to  his  brow, 

and  bring  back  his  thoughts  into  his  heart  by  the  music  of  thy 

discourse.     Teach  him  to  live  unto  God  and  unto  thee;  and  he 

will  discover  that  women,  like  the  plants  in  woods,  derive  their 

softness  and  tenderness  from  the  shade.  Landor. 

Walter  Savage  Landor  was  born  in  Warwick,  England,  on  the  30tli  of  Jan- 
uary, 1775,  and  was  educated  at  Rugby  and  Oxford.  He  first  resided  at  Swan- 
sea, in  Wales,  dependent  on  his  father  for  a  small  income,  where  he  commenced 
Ilia  "  hnaginary  Convei-sations,"  a  work  which  alone  establishes  his  fame.  His 
first  publication  was  a  small  volume  of  poems,  dated  1793.  On  succeeding  to 
the  family  estate  he  became  entirely  independent,  and  was  enabled  to  indulge 
to  the  fullest  liis  propensity  to  literature.  He  left  England  in  18(tt),  married  in 
iai4,  and  went  to  Italy  the  foUowi  jg  year,  where  he  chiefly  resided  till  his  re- 


3.^-1  NATIONAL    FltTH    UEADKK. 

turn  to  Kngl.tiid,  about  1830.  His  collected  works,  of  prose  Hiul  verse,  were  put> 
lislied  in  1646,  in  two  large  volumes.  Mr.  Landor  is  a  poet  ol'  jsreat  orit:iaalily 
and  power.  \hd  he  is  most  favorably  known  now,  as  he  will  be  by  posterity,  toi 
his  prose  firoductions,  which,  written  in  pure  nervous  English,  are  full  of  thoujiliL} 
that  fasten  themselves  on  the  mind,  and  are  "a  joy  forever."  His  '*  Imaginary 
Conversations,"  from  wliich  the  preceding  dialogue  was  selected,  is  a  very  valu- 
able work.  It  is  rich  in  scholarship;  full  of  imagination,  wit,  and  humor;  cor 
reel,  roncise,  and  pure  in  style    various  in  interest,  and  universal  in  sympathy 


106.    Ode  to  Adversity. 

1.  "I'VAUGHTER  of  Jove,  relentless  power, 
U  Thou  tamer  of  the  human  breast, 
Whose  iron  scourge  and  tortiiring  hour 

The  bad  afFright,  afflict  the  best ! 
Bound  in  thy  adamantine  chain. 
The  proud  are  taught  to  taste  of  pain ; 
And  purple  tyrants  vainly  groan 
Wifli  pangs  unfelt  before,  unpitied  and  alone. 

2.  Wlien  first  thy  sire  to  send  on  earth 

Virtue,  his  darling  child,  designM, 
To  thee  he  gave  the  heavenly  birth. 

And  bade  to  form  her  infant  mind. 
Stern,  rugged  nurse !  thy  rigid  lore 
With  patience  many  a  year  she  bore  : 
What  sorrow  was,  thou  bad'st  her  know. 
And  from  her  own  she  Icarn'd  to  melt  at  others'  woe, 

8.       Scared  at  thy  froAvn  terrific,  fly 
Self-pleasing  Folly's  idle  brood, 
Wild  Laughter,  Noise,  and  thoughtless  Joy, 

And  leave  us  leisure  to  be  good. 
Light  they  disperse,  and  with  them  go 
The  summer  fiiend,  the  flattering  foe : 
By  vain  Prosperity  received. 
To  her  they  vow  tlieir  truth,  and  are  again  believed. 

4.       Wisdom  in  sable  garb  array 'd, 

Lnmersed  in  rapturous  thought  profound, 
And  Melancholy,  silent  maid. 

With  leaden  eye  that  loves  the  ground, 
Still  on  tliy  solenm  steps  attend : 


ODE   TO   ADVEKSm.  335 

Warm  Charity,  the  general  friend, 
With  Justice,  to  herself  severe, 
And  Pity,  dropping  soft  the  sadly-pleasing  tear. 

5.  Oh  !  gently  on  thy  suppliant's  head. 

Dread  gcddess,  lay  thy  chastening  hand ! 
Not  in  thy  Gorgon'  terrors  clad. 

Nor  circled  wifh  the  vengeful  band 
(As  by  the  im'pious  thou  art  seen). 
With  thundering  voice,  and  threatening  mien, 
With  screaming  Horror's  funeral  cry, 
Despair,  and  fell  Disease,  and  ghastly  Poverty. 

6.  Thy  form  benign,  O  goddess,  wear, 

Thy  milder  influence  impart; 
Thy  philosophic  train  be  there 

To  soften,  not  to  wound,  my  heart. 
The  generous  spark  extinct  revive ; 
Teach  me  to  love,  and  to  forgive ; 
Exact,  my  own  defects  to  scan ; 
What  others  are,  to  feel ;  and  know  myself  a  man. 

Thomas  Gray 

Thomas  Gray,  the  son  of  a  scrivener  in  London,  was  born  there  in  1716.  He 
was  educated  at  Eton  and  Cambridge.  When  his  college  education  was  com- 
pleted, Horace  Walpole  induced  him  to  accompany  him  in  a  tour  through 
France  and  Italy ;  but  a  misunderstanding  taking  place.  Gray  returned  to  Eng- 
land in  1741.  His  father  being  dead,  he  went  to  Cambridge  to  take  his  degree 
in  civil  law,  though  he  was  possessed  of  suliicient  means  to  enable  him  to  dis- 
pense with  the  labor  of  his  profession.  He  settled  himself  at  Cambridge  for  the 
remainder  of  his  days,  only  leaving  home  when  he  made  tours  to  Wales,  J^cot- 
land,  and  the  lakes  of  Westmoreland,  and  when  he  passed  three  years  in  Lon- 
don for  access  to  the  library  of  the  British  Museum.  His  life  thenceforth  was 
that  of  a  scholar.  His  "  Ode  to  Eton  College,"  published  in  1747,  attracted 
little  notice ;  but  the  "  Elegy  in  a  Country  Church-yard,"  which  appeared  in 
1749,  became  at  once,  as  it  will  always  continue  to  be,  one  of  the  most  pojmlar 
of  all  poems.  3Iost  of  his  odes  were  written  in  the  course  of  three  years  tollow- 
ing  175J ;  and  the  publication  of  the  collection  in  1757  fully  established  his  repu- 
tation. His  poems,  tiowing  from  an  intense,  though  not  fertile  imagination,  in- 
spired by  the  mostdelicate  poetic  feeling,  and  elaborated  into  exquisite  terseness 
ol' diction,  are  among  the  most  splendid  ornaments  of  English  literature.    His 

*  Gorgon  :  the  gorgons,  in  heathen  mythology,  were  frightful  beiiigs, 
that  had  hissing  serpents  instead  of  hair  upon  their  heads  ;  and  they 
had  wings,  brazen  claws,  and  enormous  teeth  Their  nances  were 
Stheno,  Euryale,  and  Medusa.  The  head  of  the  latter  was  so  fiighthil 
that  every  cue  who  looked  at  it  was  changed  into  stone. 


336  NATIONAL    FUrni    liEADKK. 

"  Letters,"  published  after  his  death,  are  admirable  specimens  of  English  style, 
full  of  quiet  humor,  astute,  though  fastidious  criticism,  and  containing  some 
of  the  most  pjcturest^ue  pieces  of  descriptive  composition  in  the  language.  He 
became  professor  of  mo«leni  liistory  at  Cambridge,  in  17U8.  lie  died  by  a  sever? 
attack  of  the  gout  in  1771. 


107.   Parriiasius'  and  the  Captive. 

1.  fTlHERE  stood  an  unsold  captive  in  the  mart, 
-1-   A  gray-hair'd  and  majestical  old  man, 
Chain'd  to  a  pillar.     It  was  almost  night, 
And  the  last  seller  from  his  place  had  gone, 
And  not  a  sound  was  heard  but  of  a  dog 
Crunching  beneath  the  stall  a  refuse  bone, 

Or  the  dull  echo  from  the  pavement  rung. 
As  the  faint  captive  changed  his  weary  feet. 

2.  He  had  stood  there  since  morning,  and  had  borne 
From  every  eye  in  Ath'ens  the  cold  gaze 

Of  curious  scorn.     The  Jew  had  taunted  him 
For  an  Olynthian  slave.     The  buyer  came 
And  roughly  struck  his  palm  upon  his  breast, 
And  touch'd  his  unhcal'd  wounds,  and  with  a  sneer 
Pass'd  on  ;  and  when,  with  weariness  o'erspent, 
lie  bow'd  his  head  in  a  forgetful  sleep, 
The  inhuman  soldier  smote  him,  and,  with  threats 
Of  torture  to  his  children,  summon'd  back 
The  ebbing  blood  into  his  pallid  face. 

3.  'Twas  evening,  and  the  half-descended  sun 
Tipp'd  with  a  golden  fire  the  many  domes 
Of  Ath'ens,  and  a  yellow  atmosphere 
Lay  rich  and  dusky  in  the  shaded  street 

Through  which  the  captive  gazed.     He  had  borne  up 
With  a  stout  heart  that  long  and  weary  day, 
Haughtily  patient  of  his  many  wrongs ; 

*  '*  Tarriiasius,  a  painter  of  Athens,  among  tliose  Olynthian  captivca 
rUilip  of  Macedon  brought  home  to  sell,  bought  one  very  old  man ; 
and  when  he  had  him  at  his  house,  put  him  to  death  with  extreme  tor- 
ture and  torment,  tlie  better,  by  his  example,  to  express  the  pains  and 
ptissions  of  his  Prometheus,  whom  he  was  then  about  to  paint. — Bur- 
ton's  AruUomy  of  Mdanchuly. 


PARKHA8TUS    AND    THE   OAPTISTE.  387 

But  now  be  was  alone,  and  from  his  nerves 
The  needless  strength  departed,  and  he  lean'd 
Prone  on  his  massy  chain,  and  let  his  thoughts 
Throng  on  him  as  they  would. 
4.  Unmark'd  of  him, 

Parrhasius*  at  the  nearest  pillar  stood, 
Gazing  upon  his  grief.     The  Athenian's  cheek 
Flush'd  as  he  measured  wiSi  a  painter's  eye 
llie  moving  picture.     The  abandon'd  limbs, 
Stain'd  with  the  oozing  blood,  were  laced  with  veins 
Swollen  to  purple  fullness ;  the  gray  hair. 
Thin  and  disorder'd,  hung  about  his  eyes ; 
And  as  a  thought  of  wilder  bitterness 
Rose  in  his  memory,  his  lips  grew  white. 
And  the  fast  workings  of  his  bloodless  face 
Told  what  a  tooth  of  fire  was  at  his  heart. 

6.  The  golden  light  into  the  painter's  room 
Stream'd  richly,  and  the  hidden  colors  stole 
From  the  dark  pictures  radiantly  forth, 
And  in  the  soft  and  dewy  atmosphere 
Like  forms  and  landscapes  magical  they  lay. 
The  walls  were  hung  wifli  armor,  and  about 
In  the  dim  corners  stood  the  sculptured  forms 
Of  Cytheris,^  and  Dian,'  and  stern  Jove,* 

*Parrhasius,  a  distinguished  painter  of  antiquity,  born  about  the 
year  460  b.  c,  was  a  native  of  Ephesus,  though  others  say  he  was  an 
Athenian,  where  he  flourished  in  the  time  of  Socrates,  and  was  the 
rival  of  Zedxis.  The  latter  painted  grapes  so  naturally  that  birds  came 
to  pick  them.  Parrhasius  having  exhibited  a  piece,  Zeuxis  said,  "  Eo- 
move  your  cwrtom  that  we  may  see  your  painting."  The  curtain  was 
the  painting.  Zeuxis  acknowledged  his  defeat,  saying,  Zbuxis  has 
deceived  birds,  but  Parrhasius  has  deceived  Zeuxis."  He  was  so  ex- 
cessively vain  as  to  wear  a  crown  of  gold,  and  to  carry  a  staff  studded 
with  gold  nails,  to  indicate  that  he  was  the  prince  of  painters.—'  Cyth- 
KRis,  a  celebrated  courtesan,  the  mistress  of  Antony,  and  subsequently 
of  the  poet  Gallus,  who  mentions  her  in  his  poems  under  the  name  of 
Lycoris. — *  Diana  (di^'na),  an  ancient  Italian  divinity,  whom  the  Ro- 
mans identified  with  the  Greek  Artemis.  According  to  the  most  an- 
cient accounts,  she  was  the  daughter  of  Jupiter  and  Leto,  and  the  twin 
fiister  of  Apollo.— *  Jove,  Jupiter,  the  supreme  deity  of  the  Roi 
cnllet}  ^pi'P  by  the  Greeks. 

15 


838  NATIONAL    yiVT.  1    RKADKH. 

And  from  the  casement  soberly  away 

Fell  the  grotesque  long  shadows,  full  and  trao, 

And,  like  a  vail  of  filmy  mellowness, 

The  lint-specks  floated  in  the  twilight  air. 

6.  Parrhasius  stood,  gazing  forgetfully 
Upon  his  canvas.     There  Promethews'  lay, 
Chained  to  the  cold  rocks  of  Mount  Caucasus — 
The  vulture  at  his  vitals,  and  the  links 

Of  the  lame  Lemnian^  festering  in  his  flesh ; 
And,  as  the  painter's  mind  felt  through  the  dim, 
Rapt  mystery,  and  pluck'd  the  shadows  forth 
Wifli  its  far  reaching  fancy,  and  with  form 
And  color  clad  them,  his  fine,  earnest  eye, 
Flash 'd  with  a  passionate  fire,  and  the  (]uick  curl 
Of  his  thin  nostril,  and  his  quivering  lip, 
Were  like  the  wing'd  god's,  breathing  from  his  flignt, 

7.  "  Bring  me  the  captive  now  ! 

My  hand  feels  skillful,  and  the  shadows  lift 
From  my  waked  spirit  airily  and  swift, 

And  I  could  paint  the  bow 
Upon  the  bended  heavens — around  me  play 
Colors  of  such  divinity  to-day. 

8.  "Ha!  bind  him  on  his  back! 

Look ! — as  Prometheus  in  my  picture  here ! 
Quick — or  he  faints! — stand  with  the  coidial  near  I 

Now — bend  him  to  the  rack! 
Press  down  the  poison'd  links  into  his  flesh ! 
And  tear  agape  that  healing  wound  afresh ! 

9.  "  So — let  him  writhe !     How  long 

Will  he  live  thus  ?     Quick,  my  good  pencil,  now  I 

^  Prome'theus,  in  heathen  mythology,  was  son  of  the  Titan  Sai)etn8 
dhd  Clymene.  His  name  signilies  for dhought.  For  offenses  against  Ju- 
piTKR,  lie  was  cliaiued  to  a  rock  on  Mount  Caucasus,  where  an  eagle 
consinued  in  the  daytime  his  liver,  which  ^^as  p'storcl  in  each  succeed- 
ing night. — '  Lemnian,  from  Lcnmos,  now  Stalinuu,  an  island  of  the 
Greek  Archipelago,  where  the  lame  Hephaestus,  or  Vulcan,  the  god  of 
fire,  is  said  to  have  fallen,  when  Jupiter  hurled  him  down  from  heaven. 
Hence  the  workshop  of  the  god  is  gometimos  placed  in  this  island. 


PARRHABIU8    AND   IHE   CAPTIVE.  iiiid 

What  a  fine  agony  works  upon  his  brow ! 

Ha !  gfay-hair'd,  and  so  strong ! 
How  fearfully  he  stifles  that  short  moan! 
Gods !  if  I  could  but  paint  a  dying  groan  I 

U  "'Pity' thee!     Soldo! 

I  pity  the  dumb  victim  at  the  altar — 

But  docs  the  robed  priest  for  his  piti/  falter  ? 

I'd  rack  thee,  though  I  knew 
A  thousand  lives  were  perishing  in  thine — 
What  were  ten  thousand  to  a  fame  like  mine 

11.  "*  Hereafter !'     Ay — hereafter/ 
A  whip  to  keep  a  coward  to  his  track ! 
What  gave  Death  ever  from  his  kingdom  back 

To  check  the  skeptic's  laughter  ? 
Come  from  the  grave  to-morrow  with  that  story — 
And  I  may  take  some  softer  path  to  glory. 

12.  "  No,  no,  old  man !  we  die 

Even  as  the  flowers,  and  we  shall  breathe  away 
Our  life  upon  the  chance  wind,  even  as  they ! 

Strain  well  thy  fainting  eye — 
For  when  that  bloodshot  quivering  is  o'er, 
The  light  of  heaven  will  never  reach  thee  more. 

13.  "  Yet  there's  a  deathless  name  / 

A  spirit  that  the  smothering  vault  shall  spurn, 
And  like  a  steadfast  planet  mount  and  burn — 

And  though  its  crown  of  flame 
Consumed  my  brain  to  ashes  as  it  shone, 
By  all  the  fiery  stars !  I'd  bind  it  on  I 

14.  "  Ay — though  it  bid  me  rifle 

My  heart's  last  fount  for  its  insatiate  thirst — 
Though  every  life-strung  nerve  be  madden'd  first — 

Though  it  should  bid  me  stifle 
The  yearning  in  my  throat  for  my  sweet  child, 
A.nd  taunt  its  mother  till  my  brain  went  wild — 

35.  "  All— I  w -uld  do  it  ail- 

Sooner  than  die,  like  a  dull  worm,  to  rcb — 
Thrust  foully  into  earth  to  be  forgot ! 


340  NATIONAL   FIFTH   READER. 

0  heavens ! — but  I  appall 

Your  heart,  old  man!  forgive ha!  on  your  lives 

Let  him  not  faint ! — rack  him  till  he  revives ! 

16.  "Vain — vain — give  o'er  I     His  eye 
Glazes  apace.     He  docs  not  feel  you  now — 
Stand  back !  I'll  paint  the  dcatli-dew  on  his  brow . 

Gods !  if  he  do  not  die 
But  for  one  moment — one — till  I  eclipse 
Conception  wifh  the  scorn  of  those  calm  lips  1 

1 7.  "  Shivering !     Hark !  he  mutters 
Brokenly  now — that  was  a  difficult  breath — 
Another  ?     Wilt  thou  never  come,  O  Death ! 

Look !  how  his  temple  flutters ! 
Is  his  heart  still  ?     Aha !  lift  up  his  head ! 
He  shudders — gasps — Jove  help  him ! — so — he's  dead." 

18.  How  like  a  mounting  devil  in  the  heart 
Rules  the  unrein'd  ambition  /     Let  it  once 
But  play  the  monarch,  and  its  haughty  brow 
Glows  wifli  a  beauty  that  bewilders  thought 
And  unthrones  peace  forever.     Putting  on 
The  very  pomp  of  Lucifer,  it  turns 

The  heart  to  ashes,  and  with  not  a  spring 

Left  in  the  bosom  for  the  spirit's  lip, 

We  look  upon  our  splendor  and  forget 

The  thirst  of  which  we  perish  !     Yet  hath  iite 

Many  a  falser  idol.     There  are  hopes 

Promising  well ;  and  love-touch'd  dreams  for  some ; 

And  passions,  many  a  wild  one ;  and  fair  schemes 

For  gold  and  pleasure — yet  will  only  this 

Balk  not  the  soul — Ambition  only,  gives, 

Even  of  bitterness,  a  beaker  full/ 

19.  Friendship  is  but  a  slow-awaking  dream, 
Troubled  at  best — Love  is  a  lamp  unseen. 
Burning  to  waste,  or,  if  its  light  is  found, 
Nursed  for  an  idle  hour,  then  idly  .^rgken — 
Gain  is  a  grpveling  care,  and  Folly  tires. 
And  Quiet  is  a  hunger  never  fod — 


PARRHASIUS    AND    TFJP:    CAPXrV^E.  341 

An  J  from  Love's  very  bosom,  and  from  Gam, 
Or  Folly,  or  a  Friend,  or  from  Repose — 
From  all  but  keen  Ambition — will  the  soul 
Snatch  the  first  moment  of  forgetfulness 
To  wander  like  a  restless  child  away. 

20.  Oh,  if  there  were  not  better  hopes  than  these — 
Were  there  no  palm  beyond  a  feverish  fame — 
If  the  proud  wealth  flung  back  upon  the  heart 
Must  canker  in  its  cofi'ers — if  the  links 
Falsehood  hath  broken  will  unite  no  more — 
If  the  deep-yearning  love,  that  hath  not  found 
Its  like  in  the  cold  world,  must  waste  in  tears — 
If  truth,  and  fervor,  and  devotedness, 
Finding  no  worthy  altar,  must  return 
And  die  of  their  own  fullness — if  beyond 
The  grave  there  is  no  heaven  in  whose  wide  air 
The  spirit  may  find  room,  and  in  the  love 
Of  whose  bright  habitants  the  lavish  heart 
May  spend  itself — what  thrice-mock'd  fools  are  we  ! 

N.  P.  Willis. 

Nathaniel  Parker  Willis,  one  of  the  most  voluminous  and  successful  of 
American  writers,  wa-s  born  in  Portland,  Maine,  on  the  'Joth  of  January,  1807. 
His  father,  a  distinjiuished  journalist,  removed  to  Boston  when  he  was  six  years 
of  age.  He  was  prepared  tor  college  at  the  Latin  School  of  Boston  and  at  the 
?hilli[)s  Academy  at  Andover,  He  graduated  with  high  honors  at  Vale  in 
1827.  While  in  college,  he  distinguished  himself  by  a  series  of  sacre<l  |K)ems, 
^  and  gained  the  prize  of  Hfty  dollars  for  the  best  |»oem,  offered  by  Lockwood,  the 
publisher  of  "  The  Album."  After  his  graduation  he  edited  "  The  l^egendary," 
a  scries  of  voUuues  of  tales,  and  then  established  the  "  American  Monthly  Mag- 
azine," which,  after  two  yeai-s  and  a  half,  was  merged  in  the  "  New  York  Mir- 
ror," and  the  literary  fraternity  of  N.  P.  Willis  and  Georgf.  P.  Morris  began. 
Immediately  after  the  partnership  was  formed,  he  set  sail  for  a  tour  in  Europe, 
palatable  and  piciuant  rei)orts  of  which  appeared  in  the  "  Mirror,"  entitled 
"  Pencilings  by  the  Way."  This  first  and  extended  residence  abroad  led  our 
t»"avcler  through  all  the  capitals  of  Europe,  and  even  to  "the  poetic  altars  of  the 
Orirnt."  In  I8:{.'),  after  residing  two  years  in  London,  and  contributing  to  the 
"  New  Monthly  Magazine"  tales  and  sketches,  republished  under  the  title  of 
"  Inklings  of  Adventure,"  he  married  Mary  Leighton  Stacy,  the  daughter  of  a 
distinguished  ofhcer  who  had  won  high  honors  at  Waterloo,  and  was  then  C'om- 
mi'«ary- general  in  command  of  the  arsenal,  Woolwich.  In  I8:f7,  he  returned 
to  ids  native  land,  and  established  himself  at  "Glenmary,"  in  Central  New 
V'ork,  near  the  village  of  Dwego.  The  |)orti,\it  of  this  hajipy  home  and  the 
landsca|>e  around,  is  drdwn  in  "  Letters  from  under  a  Bridge."  In  18:<i»,  he  be- 
came one  of  the  editors  of  "The  Corsair,"  a  literary  gazette,  and  made  a  short 
trip  to  England.     C'l  his  return  liome,  "  Tlie  Corsair"  I  aving  been  discontinued 


342  NATIONAJ.    VlinU     READER. 

he  revived,  with  his  former  partner.  Gen.  Morris,  tim  "  Mirror."  Upon  the 
death  of  his  wife,  in  1H44,  he  again  visited  Europe  for  tiie  iin|>rovenieut  ol  his 
health.  Soon  after,  the  "  Mirror"  having  pa-ssed  into  oilier  hands,  the  partners 
estahlished  "The  Home  Journal,"  a  |)aper  eminently  swcce-ssfuJ,  U|)on  which 
they  are  still  amployed.  In  October,  Iti-IG,  lie  married  Cornelia,  only  daughter 
of  the  lion,  dsepu  Grinnkll,  of  Mas.sachu.setts.  since  which  time  he  has  re- 
•»idod  at  "  kilt  A'ild,"  a  romantic  place,  which  he  ha.s  cultivated  and  emlR'llish- 
ed,  near  Newbirg,  on  the  Hudson.  His  poems  have  recently  been  published  in 
an  elegant  octavo  volume,  illustrated  by  Leutze.  More  recently,  a  uniform  col 
lection  of  his  prose  writings,  m  twelve  volumes,  of  some  five  bundled  pages 
each,  has  come  from  the  press.  His  last  and  most  extensive  novel,  "  Taiil 
Fane,"  abounds  in  tliat  dainty  analysis  of  certain  subtle  traits  o(  character  and 
social  manner,  in  which  he  is  alway  so  singularly  successlul.  Mr  Willis  is 
equally  happy  as  a  writer  of  prose  and  verse.  With  a  felicitous  style,  a  warm 
and  exuberant  fancy,  and  a  ready  and  sparkling  wit,  he  wins  the  admiration  of 
readers  of  the  most  refined  sentiment  and  the  daintiest  fancy,  and  at  the  saane 
time  commands  the  full  sympathy  of  the  masses. 


108.  Ambition. 

¥IIY  should  I  serve  thee,  when  I  know  so  well 
Thy  promises  are  ne'er  fulfiird?     Nc  cheat 
Or  low  impostor  comes  to  me  more  bare 
Of  that  on  which  we  would  rest  our  belief 
Than  thou — not  only  to  my  sight  disclosed 
By  mine  own  losses,  but  those  who  have  worn 
Thy  yoke  the  longest,  and  received  of  thee 
Thy  richest  gifts,  declare  them  dross  and  poor. 
Yet  do  I  find  so  keen  an  appetite 
For  thy  most  empty  banquet,  that  I  still 
Ilunt  round  thy  table  for  its  meanest  crumbs. 

We  do  thee  homage  in  our  daily  walks, 
Ordering  our  dress  and  gait  as  to  ihy  whim. 
When  we  would  speak  for  but  the  interchange 
Of  casual  thought,  if  there  be  listeners  near, 
At  thy  command  we  m§asure  every  word : 
If  we  sit  silent,  ySt  beneath  some  eye 
Regarding  us,  then  doth  our  care  adjust 
Each  fold  and  feature,  lest  it  thee  otieiid. 
Within  the  house  of  prayer,  while  we  do  kneel, 
If  not  supreme,  thou  second  art  in  power, 
Abating  from  the  heart  thou^iht  of  the  flesh. 


AaiBITION.  3^ 

But  when  it  coraeth  to  life's  chosen  task, 
Changing  its  purpose  and  its  true  design, 
For  thee  we  bear  the  burden — put  at  risk 
All  God  hath  loanM  us  to  be  used  for  him, 
And  pay  a  price  to  be  enroird  thy  slaves  I 

Where  dost  thou  sit  enthroned?    What  secret  power 

Is  this  of  thine  that  doth  throughout  prevail 

All  heights — all  depths  unto  our  being's  end? 

It  takes  a  tiflie  of  virtue ;  to  its  aim 

Turneth  each  vice,  uniting  to  one  draught 

What  were  abhorrent  on  another  road. 

It  is  my  close  companion — to  the  gate 

Of  Heaven  it  lurketh  after  when  I  soar. 

Or  by  the  doors  of  Ilell,  gone  on  before, 

It  stands  and  beckons  when  I  do  descend. 

I  can  not  be  alone !     The  silent  path 

Of  the  mid-forest,  where  no  foot  doth  tread 

But  softly  mine,  or  the  close-bolted  room. 

Alike  do,  as  I  enter,  let  it  in. 

Oil !  subtle  foe,  who  now  I  rather  give 

Thy  Iwimbler,  truer  name,  Self-love,  by  thee 

How  many  wounds  I  have,  and  how  great  loss  I 

I  may  not  reach  thee.     Can  I  separate 
From  my  full  mind  its  Memory  ?  or  at  will 
riuck  from  Imagination  her  swift  wings? 
So  am  I  helpless  mid  a  guilty  soul. 
If  I  can  bind  ambition,  why  not  pierce 
The  sack  of  hatred's  venom  ?  or  cut  oflf 
The  talons  keen  of  covetousness  ?     Try 
To  raise  a  dam  and  boundary  between 
The  sense  of  beauty  and  the  evil  eye ! 

Enchurch  affection — call  the  raven  back 

When  it  hath  left  the  ark,  gone  to  and  fro  I 

Sweep  out  each  dusty  spot  withm  my  soul. 

And  there,  hencetbrth,  be  pure — let  not  the  thought 

Nor  secret  act  be  to  the  test  unclean  ! 

I  may  not  conquer  them — they,  separate. 

Have  power  and  strong  dominion  over  me ; 


344  NATIONAL    FIFfH    RKADEK. 

Y6t  is  there  not  one  that  deliglits  to  roam 
This  bosom,  but  ray  Father  holds  its  chain ! 

Gold  Pbi. 


109.  Shakspeare. 

SHAKSPEARE  is,  abDve  all  writers,— at  least  above  -^ll 
modern  writers, — the  poet  of  nature ;  the  poet  that  holds 
up  to  his  readers  a  faithful  mirror  of  manners  and  of  life.  Ilis 
characters  are  not  modified  by  the  customs  of  particular  places, 
unpracticed  by  the  rest  of  the  world;  by  the  pecu'larities  ol 
studies  or  professions,  which  can  operate  but  upon  small  num- 
bers; or  by  the  accidents  of  transient  fashions  or  temporary 
opinions ;  they  are  the  genuine  progeny  of  common  humanity, 
such  as  the  world  will  always  supply,  and  observation  will  always 
find.  His  persons  act  and  speak  by  the  influence  of  those  gen- 
eral passions  and  principles  by  which  all  minds  are  agitated, 
and  the  whole  system  of  life  is  continued  in  motion.  In  the 
writings  of  other  poets  a  character  is  too  often  an  individual : 
m  those  of  Shakspeare  it  is  commonly  a  species. 

2.  It  is  from  this  wide  extension  of  design  that  so  much  in- 
struction is  derived.  It  is  this  which  fills  the  plays  of  Shak- 
speare with  practical  axioms  and  domestic  wisdom.  It  was  said 
of  Euripides,^  that  every  verse  was  a  pi'ecef)t ;  and  it  may  be 
said  of  Shakspeare,  that  from  his  works  may  be  collected  a  sys- 
tem of  civil  and  economical  prudence.  YSt  his  real  power  is 
not  shown  in  the  splendor  of  particular  passages,  but  by  the 
progress  of  his  fahlc,  and  the  tenor  of  his  dialogue  :  an<l  he  that 
tries  to  recommend  him  by  select  quotations,  will  succeed  like 

*Seep.  148. — 'Euripidks,  one  of  the  three  great  Greek  tragedians, 
was  bom  in  Salaniis,  whither  his  parents  retired  during  the  occupation 
of  Attica  by  Xerxes,  on  the  day  of  the  glorious  victory  near  that  island, 
B.  c.  480.  He  was  highly  learned  and  accomplished,  and  on  terms  ol 
intimacy  with  Socrates.  He  gained  two  victories  in  the  Eleusiniuu  and 
Thesean  athletic  games  when  only  seventeen  years  old  ;  received  the 
third  prize  for  his  first  tragedy,  which  appeared  in  his  twenty-fifth  year, 
and  the  first  prize  on  two  subsequent  occasions.  According  tu  somj  au- 
thorities, EURIP1DF3  wrot^  92  tragedies,  according  to  others,  75.  Ol 
these  1 9  are  extant.  He  died  B.  3.  40C,  at  the  age  of  seventy  five,  and 
Wis  buried  at  Telia. 


8HAKSPE.aitE.  345 

the  pedant  in  nier'ocles,'  who,  when  he  offered  his  house  to 
sale,  carried  a  brick  in  his  pocket  as  a  specimen. 

3.  It  will  not  easily  be  imagined  how  much  Shakspeare  ex- 
cels in  accommodating  his  sentiments  to  real  life,  but  by  com- 
paring him  with  other  authors.  It  was  observed  of  the  ancient 
schools  of  declamation,  that  the  more  diligently  they  were  fre- 
quented, the  more  was  the  student  disqualified  for  the  w^orld, 
because  he  found  nothing  there  which  he  should  ever  meet  in 
any  other  place.  The  same  remark  may  be  applied  to  every 
stage  but  that  of  Shakspeare.  The  theater,  when  it  is  under 
any  other  direction,  is  peopled  by  such  characters  as  were  never 
seen,  conversing  in  a  language  which  was  never  heard,  upon 
topics  which  will  never  arise  in  the  commerce  of  mankind. 
But  the  dialogue  of  this  author  is  often  so  evidently  determined 
by  the  incident  which  produces  it,  and  is  pursued  with  so  much 
ease  and  simplicity,  that  it  seems  scarcely  to  claim  the  merit  of 
fiction,  but  to  have  been  gleaned  by  diligent  selection  out  of 
common  conversation  and  common  occurrences. 

4.  Upon  every  other  stage  the  universal  agent  is  love,  by 
whose  power  all  good  and  evil  is  distributed,  and  every  action 
quickened  or  retarded.  To  bring  a  lover,  a  lady,  and  a  rival 
into  the  fable ;  to  entangle  them  in  contradictory  obligations, 
perplex  them  with  oppositions  of  interest,  and  harass  them  with 
violence  of  desires  inconsistent  with  each  other ;  to  make  them 
meet  in  rapture,  and  part  in  agony ;  to  fill  their  moufhs  with 
hyperbolicaP  joy  and  outrageous  sorrow;  to  distress  them  as 
nothing'  human  ever  was  distressed ;  to  deliver  them  as  nothing 
human  ever  was  delivered ;  is  the  business  of  a  modern  dramatist. 
For  this,  probability  is  violated,  life  is  misrepresented,  and  lan- 
guage is  depraved. 

5.  But  love  is  only  one  of  many  passions ;  and  as  it  has  no 
great  influence  upon  the  sum  of  life,  it  has  little  operation  in 
the  dramas  of  a  poet,  who  caught  his  ideas  from  the  living 
world,  and  exhibited  only  what  he  saw  before  him.  He  knew 
that  any  other  passion,  as  it  was  regular  or  exorbitant,  was  a 

*  HiEp/ocLES,  a  Platonic  philosopher  of  Alexandria,  who  wrote,  among 
other  things,  many  facetious  stories. — •  Hy  per  b6r  ic  al,  exaggerating 
or  diminishing  greatly. — "  Nothing  (n&th'  ing.) 


346  NATIONAL   FIFfH   READER. 

cause  of  liappiness  or  calamity.  This,  therefore,^  is  the  praise 
of  Shakspeare,  that  his  drama  is  tlic  mirror  of  life ;  that  he  who 
has  mazed  his  imagination,  in  following  the  phantoms  wliich 
other  writers  raise  up  before  him,  may  here  be  cured  of  his 
delirious  ecstasies,  by  i  :ading  human  sentiments  in  human 
language,  by  sccn;;3  from  which  a  hermit  may  estimate  tlit 
transactions  of  the  world,  and  a  confessor  predict  the  progi-c^- 
of  the  passions. 

6.  Shakspeare's  plays  are  not,  in  the  rigorous  and  critical 
sense,  either  tragedies  or  comedies,  but  compositions  of  a  distinct 
kind;  exhibiting  the  real  state  of  sublunary  nature,  which  par- 
takes of  good  and  evil,  joy  and  sorrow,  mingled  wifti  endless 
variety  of  proportion,  and  innumerable  modes  of  combination ; 
and  expressing  the  course  of  the  world,  in  which  the  loss  of  on-) 
is  the  gain  of  another;  in  which,  at  the  same  time,  the  reveler 
is  hasting  to  his  wine,  and  the  mourner  burying  his  friend ;  iu 
which  the  malignity  of  one  is  sometimes  defeated  by  the  frolic 
of  another;  and  many  mischiefs  and  many  benefits  are  done 
and  hindered  without  desio^n. 

7.  Shakspeare  has  united  the  powers  of  exciting  laughter  and 
sorrow  not  only  in  one  mind,  but  in  one  composition.  Almost 
all  his  plays  are  divided  between  serious  and  ludicrous  charac- 
ters, and,  in  the  successive  evolutions  of  the  design,  sometimes 
produce  seriousness  and  sorrow,  and  sometimes  levity  and  laugh- 
ter. That  this  is  a  practice  contrary  to  the  rules  of  criticism 
will  be  readily  allowed ;  but  there  is  alway  an  appeal  open 
from  criticism  to  nature.  The  end  of  writing  is  to  instruct ; 
the  end  of  poetry  is  to  instruct  by  pleasing.  That  the  mingled 
drama  may  convey  all  the  instruction  of  tragedy  or  comedy  can 
not  be  denied,  because  it  includes  both  in  its  alternations  of 
exhibition,  and  approaches  nearer  than  either  to  the  appear- 
ance of  life,  by  showing  how  great  machinations  and  slender 
designs  may  promote  or  obviate  one  another,  and  the  high  and 
the  \ovi  cooperate  in  the  general  system  by  unavoidable  concat- 

^enation." 

8.  The  force  of  his  comic  scenes  has  suffered  little  diminution 

'Th6rc'f6r«. — '  Con  cat  e  ni' tion,  connection  by  links*  a  series  oi 
links  united,  or  of  things  depending  on  «a«  h  other. 


hamlet's  instruction  to  the  players.         347 

^om  the  changes  made  by  a  century  and  a  half,  in  manners  or 
tti  words.  As  his  personages  act  upon  principles  arising  from 
genuine  passion,  very  little  modified  by  particular  forms,  their 
pleasures  and  vexations  are  communicable  to  all  times  and  to  all 
places ;  they  are  natural,  and  therefore  durable.  The  adventi- 
tious peculiarities  of  personal  habits  are  only  superficial  dyes, 
bright  and  pleasing  for  a  little  while,  yet  soon  fading  to  a  dim 
tinct,'  without  any  remains  of  former  luster ;  but  the  discrimina- 
tions of  true  passion  are  the  colors  of  nature;  they  pervade  the 
whole  mass,  and  can  only  perish  wi6i  the  body  that  exhibits 
them.  The  accidental  compositions  of  heterogeneous  modes 
are  dissolved  by  the  chance  which  combined  them  ;  but  the 
uniform  simplicity  of  primitive  qualities  neither  admits  increase, 
nor  sutfcrs  decay.  The  sand  heaped  by  one  flood  is  scattered 
by  another ;  but  the  rock  alway  continues  in  its  place.  Tho 
stream  of  time,  which  is  continually  washing  the  dis'soluble 
fabrics  of  other  poets,  passes  without  injury  by  the  adamant  of 
Shakspcare.  Dr.  Johnson." 


110.  Hamlet's  Instruction  to  the  Players.' 

SPEAK  the  speech,  I  pray  you,  as  I  pronounced  it  to  you, — 
trippingly  on  the  tongue ;  but  if  you  mouth  it,  as  many  of 
our  players  do,  I  had  as  lief  the  town-crier  spake  my  lines.  Nor 
do  not  saw  the  air  too  much  wifh  your  hand  thus,  but  use  all 
gently ;  for  in  the  very  torrent,  tempest,  and,  as  I  may  say, 
whirlwind  of  your  passion',  you  must  acquire  and  beget  a  tem- 
perance, that  may  give  it  smoothness.  Oh !  it  ofi'ends  me  to 
the  soul,  to  hear  a  robustious  periwig-pated  fellow  tear  a  passion 
to  tatters, — to  very  rags, — to  split  the  ears  of  the  groundlings ; 
who,  for  the  most  part,  are  capable  of  nothing  but  inexplicable 
dumb  show  and  noise.  I  would  have  such  a  fellow  whipped 
for  o'erdoing  Termagant  :*  it  out-herods  Herod.*  Pray  you, 
avoid  it. 

»11nct  (tfngkt),  spot ;  stain  ;  color — '  See  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  230. 
— 'See  Kiiles  for  the  Use  of  Emphasis,  p.  32. — * Ter' ma gant,  a  boister- 
ous, brawling  woman. — '  Hkrod  :  there  were  four  persons  of  this  name, 
■ill  of  whom  are  muiitoned  iu  the  New  Testament.  The  Herod  who 
sent   uut   and   slew  al.  the  children   iu   Bethlehem  [Matthew,  cl^p. 


34S  NATIONAL    FllTU    READER. 

2.  Be  not  too  tame  neither,  but  let  your  own  discretion  be 
your  tutor.  Suit  the  action  to  the  word ;  the  word  to  the  ac- 
tion; with  this  special  observance — that  you  o'erstep  not  the 
modesty  of  nature  :  for  any  thing  so  over-done  is  from  the  pur- 
pose of  playing ;  whose  end,  both  at  the  first  and  now,  was,  and 
is,  to  hold,  as  'twere,  the  mirror  up  to  nature  ; — to  show  virtue 
her  own  feature  ;  scorn  her  own  image  ;  and  the  very  age  and 
body  of  the  time,  his  form  and  pressure.  Now  this,  overdone 
>r  come  tardy  off,  though  it  make  the  unskillful  laugh,  can 
lot  but  make  the  judicious  grieve;  the  censure  of  which  one, 
must,  in  your  allowance,  o'erweigh  a  whole  theater  of  others. 
Oh  1  there  be  players,  that  I  have  seen  play,  and  heard  others 
praise,  and  that  highly,  not  to  speak  it  profanely,  that,  nSithei 
having  the  accent  of  Christians,  nor  the  gait  of  Christian,  pagan, 
or  man,  have  so  strutted  and  bellowed,  that  I  have  thought 
some  of  nature's  journeymen  had  made  men,  and  not  made 
them  well, — they  imitated  humanity  so  abominably ! 

Shakspeare. 

WiLUAM  Shakspeare,  0116  of  the  greatest  of  all  poets,  was  born  at  Stratforu- 
on-Avou,  Warwick  county,  Ensland,  in  April,  1504.  His  father,  John  Shak- 
Bi'EARE,  a  woolconiber  or  glover,  rose  to  be  high  bailiff  and  chief  alderman  of 
Stratford.  William  is  su|>|>osed  to  have  received  his  early  education  at  the 
grammar-school  in  his  native  town.  We  have  no  trace  how  he  was  employed 
between  his  school-days  and  manliood.  Some  hold  that  he  was  an  attorney's 
clerk.  Doubtless  he  was  a  hard,  tliougn  perhaps  an  irregular  student  He 
married  Anne  Hathaway  in  158-2,  and  soon  after  became  connected  with  the 
Blackfriar's  Theater,  in  London,  to  whi<*.h  city  he  removed  in  1586  or  1J87. 
Two  years  subsequent  he  was  a  joint  proprietor  of  that  theater,  with  four  others 
below  him  in  the  list.  Though  we  know  nothing  of  llie  date  of  his  first  play,  he 
had  most  probably  begun  to  write  long  before  he  left  Stratford.  Of  his  thirty- 
seven  plays,  the  existence  of  thirty-one  if  defined  by  contemi  orary  records.  Ht 
became  rich  ni  the  theaters,  with  which  he  ceased  to  be  connected  about  1009. 
He  had  previously  purchased  the  principal  house  in  his  native  town,  where  he 


ii.  V.  16]  was  Herod  the  Great,  king  of  the  Jews.  Herocl  tliat  be 
headed  John  the  Baptist  [Mark  vi.  27]  was  Herod  Antipas,  son  of  Herod 
the  Great.  Herod  who  persecuted  the  Christians  [Acts  xii.  20]  wa? 
Herod  Agrippa,  grand.son  of  Herod  the  Great,  and  nei)hew  of  Herod 
Antipas.  Tlie  last  of  the  four  was  Herod  Agrippa  H.  [Acts  xxv.  xxvi.], 
before  whom  Paul  pleaded,  and  "almost  persuaded  to  be  a  Cliristian." 
All  of  these  noted  characters  were  men  of  cruelty  and  blood,  and  par 
ticularly  Herod  the  Great.  To  "■  oiU-lierod  Jlerod"  is  to  surpjiss  Herotl  in 
his  enormities,  and  Shakspeare  uses  this  ftrong  language  to  express  hifl 
abhorrouco  of  the  stylo  of  speaking  wliicb  he  condemns. 


CARDINAL    WOLSEY.  349 

passed  the  lesidue  of  his  life,  and  died  in  April,  1616.  We  can  only  refrr  stu- 
dents tliat  wish  to  know  more  of  this  great  poet,  to  his  writings,  an  extended  de- 
scription of  which  is  rendered  unnecessary  by  the  selection  immediately  prece- 
ding the  above.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say,  with  Jeffrey,  tliat  he  is  "  more  full 
of  wisdom  and  ridicule  and  sagacity  tlian  all  the  moralists  and  satirists  that 
ever  existed— he  is  more  wild,  airy,  and  inventive,  and  more  pathetic  and  fan- 
tastic, than  all  the  poets  of  all  regions  and  ages  of  the  world  ;  and  has  all  those 
elements  so  happily  mixed  up  in  him,  and  bears  his  high  faculties  so  temi  erute- 
ly,  that  the  most  severe  reader  cannot  complain  of  him  for  want  of  strength  or 
of  reason,  nor  tlie  most  sensitive  for  defect  of  ornament  or  ingenuity.  F-very 
thing  in  him  is  in  unmeasured  abundance  and  unequaled  perfection  ;  but  every 
tiling  so  balanced  and  kept  m  subordination,  as  not  to  jostle,  or  disturb,  or  take 
the  place  of  another.  The  most  exquisite  poetical  conceptions,  images,  and  de- 
scriptions are  given  with  such  brevity,  and  introduced  with  such  skill,  as  mere 
ly  to  adorn,  without  loading  the  sense  they  accompany.  Although  his  sails  are 
purple  and  perfumed,  and  his  prow  of  beaten  gold,  they  waft  him  on  liis  voyage, 
not  less,  but  more  rapidly  and  directly,  than  if  they  had  been  composed  of  baser 
materials.  All  liis  excellencies,  like  those  of  nature  herself,  are  thrown  out  ta 
gether;  and,  instead  of  interfering  with,  support  and  recommend  each  other. 
His  flowei-s  are  not  tied  up  in  garlands,  nor  his  fruits  crushed  into  baskets,  but 
Bpring  living  from  the  soil,  in  all  the  dew  and  freshness  of  youth ;  while  the 
graceful  foliage  in  which  they  lurk,  and  the  ample  branches,  the  rough  and  vig- 
orous stem,  and  the  wide-spreading  roots  on  which  they  depend,  are  preseiU 
along  with  them,  and  share,  in  their  places,  the  equal  care  of  their  creator." 


111.   Cardinal  Wolsey,^  on  being  cast  off  by  King 
Henry  YIII. 


1.  "IVrAY,  then,  farewell, 


have  touch'd  the  highest  point  of  all  my  greatness ; 
And,  from  that  full  meridian  of  my  glory, 
I  haste  now  to  my  setting :  I  shall  fall 

'Thomas  Wolsey,  well  known  in  history  as  Cardinal  Wolsey,  was 
bora  at  Ipswich,  England,  in  1471.  He  obtained  an  excellent  educa- 
tion, and  a  brilliant  student  reputation  at  Magdalen  College,  Oxford. 
The  turning  point  in  his  career  was  his  appointment  as  one  of  the  chap- 
lainc  of  Henry  VII.  He  exercised  an  extraordinary  influence  ovei 
Henry  VIII.  in  the  early  part  of  his  reign.  He  became  king'b  almoner, 
after  which  preferment  flowed  in  upon  him.  Possessed  of  lucrative  liv 
ings  in  England  and  France,  in  1514  he  was  made  bishop  of  Lincoln,  in 
1515  cardinal,  the  next  year  legate  a  Xa^^e,  a  comnxission  that  made 
him  virtually  pope  of  England,  and  almost  at  the  same  time  he  received 
the  high  ministerial  and  judicial  office  of  lord  chancellor.  He  was  d«^ 
feated  in  his  chief  aspiration,  to  become  pope  of  Rome.  His  ov(;rthif)W 
was  caused  by  his  unwillingness  to  become  the  king's  champion  through 
Uis  entire  course,  when  Henry  was  divorced  from  +he  sister  of  Cuaelw 


350  NAllONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Like  a  bright  exhalation  in  the  evening, 
And  no  niau  see  me  more. 
So  farewell  to  the  little  good  you  bear  me. 
Farewell,  a  long  farewell,  to  all  my  greatness! 

2.  This  is  the  state  of  man  :  to-day  he  puts  forth 
The  tender  leaves  of  hope;  to-morrow,  blossoms, 
And  bears  his  blushing  honors  thick  upon  him  : 
The  third  day  comes  a  frost,  a  killing  frost; 
And,  when  he  thinks — good,  easy  man — full  surely 
His  greatness  is  a  ripening,  nips  his  root. 
And  then  he  falls,  a^  I  do.     I  have  ventured. 
Like  little  wanton  boys  that  swim  on  bladders, 
These  many  summers  in  a  sea  of  glory ; 
But  far  beyond  my  depth :  my  high-blown  pride 
At  length  broke  under  me ;  and  now  has  left  mc, 
Weary  and  old  wifii  service,  to  the  mercy 
Of  a  rude  stream,  that  must  forever  hide  me. 

3    Vain  pomp  and  glory  of  this  world,  I  hate  ye ! 
I  feel  my  heart  new  open'd.     Oh,  how  wretched 
Is  that  poor  man  that  hangs  on  princes'  favors ! 
There  is,  betwixt  that  smile  he  would  aspire  to, 
That  sweet  aspect  of  princes,  and  his  ruin. 
More  pangs  and  fears  than  wars  or  women  have. 
And  when  he  falls,  he  falls  like  Lucifer, 
Never  to  hope  again  ! 

4.  Cromwell,'  I  did  not  think  to  shed  a  tear 
In  all  my  miseries ;  but  thou  hast  forced  me, 

v.,  of  Spain.  He  died  in  the  abbey  of  Leicester,  on  the  28th  of  Novem- 
ber, 1530.  SiiAKSi'EARB  gives  his  qualities  and  defects  with  matchless 
truth  and  beauty,  as  follows  : 

"  He  was  a  scholar,  and  a  ripe  and  good  one  ; 
Exceeding  wise,  fair-spoken,  and  persuading ; 
Lofty  and  sour  to  them  that  loved  him  not : 
But  to  those  men  tliat  sought  liim,  sweet  as  summer. 
And  though  he  was  unaitistied  in  getting 
(Which  was  a  sin),  yet  in  bestowmg,  madam, 
He  was  most  princely." 
*  Thomas  Cromwell,  a  statesman  and  adherent  of  Wolsey.  and  after 
ward  of  Henry  VIII.,  beheaded  in  1540 


NATIONAL    SONG.  tS.^i 

Out  of  thy  honest  truth,  to  play  the  woman. 

Let's  diy  our  eyes :  and  thus  far  hear  rae,  Cromwell ; 

And  when  I  am  forgotten,  as  I  shall  be, 

And  sleep  in  dull  cold  marble,  where  no  mention 

Of  me  must  more  be  heard, — say,  then,  I  taught  thcc, — 

Say,  Wolsey,  that  once  trod  the  ways  of  glory. 

And  sounded  all  the  depths  and  shoals  of  honor, 

Found  thee  a  way,  out  of  his  wreck,  to  rise  in ; 

A  sure  and  safe  one,  though  thy  master  miss'd  it. 

6.  Mark  but  my  fall,  and  that  which  ruin'd  me ! 
Cromwell,  I  charge  thee,  fling  away  ambition ! 
By  that  sin  fell  the  angels :  how  can  man,  then, 
The  image  of  his  Maker,  hope  to  win  by  't  ? 
Love  thyself  last;  cherish  those  hearts  that  hate  thee, — 
Corruption  w^ins  not  more  than  honesty ; 
Still  in  thy  right  hand  carry  gentle  peace, 
To  silence  envious  tongues.     Be  just,  and  fear  not. 
Let  all  the  ends  thou  aim'st  at  be  thy  country's, 
Thy  God's,  and  truth's  :  then,  if  thou  fall'st,  O  Cromwell, 
Thou  fall'st  a  blessed  martyr !     Serve  the  king ; 

And, Prifliee,  lead  me  in  : 

There,  take  an  inventory  of  all  I  have, 

To  the  last  penny ;  'tis  the  king's  :  my  robe, 

And  my  integrity  to  Heaven,  is  all 

I  dare  now  call  mine  own.     0,  Cromwell,  Cromwell  I 

Had  I  but  served  my  God  with  half  the  zeal 

I  served  my  king,  he  would  not,  in  muie  age, 

Have  left  me  naked  to  mine  enemies !  Shakspearb.^ 


112.  ITational  Song. 

YE  sons  of  Columbia,  who  bravely  have  fought 
For  those  rights,  which  unstain'd  from  your  sires  had 
descended, 
May  you  long  taste  the  blessings  your  valor  has  bought, 

And  your  sons  reap  the  soil  which  their  fathers  defended. 
Mid  the  reign  of  mild  Peace  may  your  nation  increase, 

'  Seo  Blograph' jal  Sketch,  p.  818. 


352  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READEli. 

Wifh  the  glory  of  Rome,  and  the  wisdom  of  Greece ; 
And  ne'er  shall  the  sons  of  Columbia  be  slaves, 
While  the  earth  bears  a  plant,  or  the  sea  rolls  its  waves. 

2.  In  a  clime  whose  rich  vcilcs  feed  the  marts  of  the  world, 

Whose  shores  are  unshaken  by  Europe's  commotion, 
Tlie  trident  of  commerce  should  never  be  hurl'd, 

To  incense  the  legitimate  powers  of  the  ocean. 
But  should  pirates  invade,  though  in  thunder  array'd. 
Let  your  cannon  declare  the  free  charter  of  trade. 

For  ne'er  shall  the  sons  of  Columbia  be  slaves. 

While  the  earth  bears  a  plant,  or  the  sea  rolls  its  waves. 

3.  The  fame  of  our  arms,  of  our  laws  the  mild  sway, 

Had  justly  ennobled  our  nation  in  story, 
'Till  the  dark  clouds  of  faction  obscured  our  young  day, 

And  envelop'd  the  sun  of  American  glory. 
But  let  traitors  be  told,  who  their  country  have  sold. 
And  bartcr'd  their  God  for  his  image  in  gold. 

That  ne'er  will  the  sons  of  Columbia  be  slaves, 

While  the  earth  bears  a  plant,  or  the  sea  rolls  its  waves. 

4.  While  France  her  huge  limbs  bathes  recumbent  in  blood. 

And  society'^  base  threats  wifli  wide  dissolution. 
May  Peace,  like  the  dove  who  return'd  from  the  flood. 

Find  an  ark  of  abode  in  our  mild  constitution. 
But  though  peace  is  our  aim,  yet  the  boon  we  disclaim, 
If  bought  by  our  sovereignty,  justice,  or  fame. 

For  ne'er  shall  the  sons  of  Columbia  be  slaves, 

While  the  earth  bears  a  plant,  or  the  sea  rolls  its  waves. 

5.  Tis  the  fire  of  the  flint  each  Am§rican  warms: 

Let  Rome's  haughty  victors  beware  of  collision ; 
Let  them  bring  all  the  vassals  of  Europe  in  arms ; 

We're  a  world  by  ourselves,  and  disdain  a  division. 
While,  wifh  patriot  pride,  to  our  laws  we're  allied. 
No  foe  can  subdue  us,  no  faction  divide. 

For  ne'er  shall  the  sons  of  Columbia  be  slaves, 

While  the  earth  bears  a  plant,  or  the  sea  rolls  its  waves 

6.  Our  mountains  are  crownM  wifli  imperial  oak, 

Whose  roots,  l"kc  our  liberties,  ages  have  nourish'd , 


NATIONAL    SjNG.  353 

But  long  e'er  our  nation  submits  to  the  yoke, 

Not  a  tree  shall  be  left  on  the  field  where  it  fiourishVl. 
Should  invasion  impend,  every  grove  would  descend 
From  the  hilltops  they  shaded  our  shdres  to  defend. 
For  ne'er  shall  the  sons  of  Columbia  be  slaves, 
While  the  earth  bears  a  plant,  or  the  sea  rolls  its  waves. 

7.  Let  our  patriots  destroy  Anarch's  pestilent  worm, 

Lest  our  liberty's  growth  should  be  check'd  by  corrosion ; 
Then  let  clouds  thicken  round  us ;  we  heed  not  the  storm ; 

Our  realm  fears  no  shock,  but  the  earth's  own  explosion. 
Foes  assail  us  in  vain,  though  their  fleets  bridge  the  main, 
For  our  altars  and  laws  wifli  our  lives  we'll  maintain, 

For  ne'er  shall  the  sons  of  Columbia  be  slaves. 

While  the  earth  bears  a  plant,  or  the  sea  rolls  its  waves. 

8.  Should  the  tempest  of  war  overshadow  our  land. 

Its  bolts  could  ne'er  rend  Freedom's  temple  asunder ; 
For,  unmoved,  at  its  portal  would  Washington'  stand. 

And  repulse,  wifh  his  breast,  the  assaults  of  the  thunder  I 
His  s2i>ord  from  the  sleep  of  its  scabbard  would  leap, 
And  conduct  with  its  point  every  flash  to  the  deep ! 

For  ne'er  shall  the  sons  of  Columbia  be  slaves. 

While  the  earth  bears  a  plant,  or  the  sea  rolls  its  waves. 

9.  Let  Fame  to  the  world  sound  America's  voice ; 

No  intrigues  can  her  sons  from  their  government  sever, 
Her  pride  is  her  Adams  f  her  laws  are  his  choice. 

And  shall  flourish  till  Liberty  slumbers  forever. 
Then  unite  heart  and  hand,  like  Leonidas'^  band, 
And  swear  to  the  God  of  the  ocean  and  land, 

That  ne'er  shall  the  sons  of  Columbia  be  slaves. 

While  the  earth  bears  a  plant,  or  the  sea  rolls  its  waves ' 

R.  T.  Paine. 

*  Washington,  see  p.  205,  note  2. — 'John  Adams,  a  celebrated  Amer- 
ican statesman,  the  second  president  of  the  United  States,  one  of  the 
chief  movers  of  the  Revolution,  "the  column  of  Congress,  the  pillar  of 
BU])port  to  the  Declaration  of  Independence,  and  its  ablest  advocate  and 
di.'fcnder,"  was  born  at  Braintree,  Massachusetts,  on  the  19th  of  Octo- 
ber, 1735,  and  died  on  the  4th  of  July,  1826. — *  Leonidas,  the  first  of 
the  name,  king  of  Sparta,  immortalized  by  his  glorious  defence  of  the 
pass  of  Thermopylae  against  Xei  xes.  reigned  from  491  to  480  b.  g. 

28 


354  NATIONAL    FILTH    READER. 

Robert  Treat  Paine,  jr.,  once  regarded  as  among  the  great  masters  of 
Eiiglisli  verse,  was  born  at  Taunton,  Massacliusetts,  on  the  9tii  of  December, 
177:{.  His  fatlier,  an  eminent  lawyer,  one  of  the  signers  of  the  Declaration  of 
Independence,  held  many  honorable  oMices  under  tlie  Slate  and  national  govern- 
ments. The  family  removed  to  Boston  when  the  poet  WEis  about  seven  years 
old,  where  he  received  his  early  education.  He  entered  Harvard  I'niversily  in 
1788,  where  his  career  was  brilliant  and  honorable  :  no  member  of  his  class  was 
BO  familiar  with  elegant  English  literature,  or  with  the  ancient  languages  ;  and 
his  poetical  exercises  won  many  and  just  praises.  He  w?is  assignetl  the  pobt  ol 
|)oet  at  the  college  exhibition  in  the  autumn  of  1791,  and  at  the  Commencement 
in  tlie  following  year.  After  receiving  his  dijjloma  he  entered  the  counting- 
room  of  Mr.  James  Tisdale,  in  Boston  ;  but,  as  he  was  no  way  suited  to  the  luir- 
snit  of  business,  he  soon  after  abandoned  the  place,  to  rely  upon  his  pen  for  the 
means  of  living.  In  1794  he  established  the  "  Federal  Orrery,"  a  political  and 
literary  gazette,  which  he  conducted  for  two  years.  At  the  opening  of  the  Fed- 
eral-street Theater,  Boston,  in  1794,  he  furnished  a  prize  prologue,  and  atler- 
tvard  became  intimate  with  pei-sons  connected  with  the  stage,  which  led  to  his 
mtiiTiage  to  Miss  Baker,  an  actress,  in  1795.  This  having  rendered  him  un- 
popular, he  unfortunately  became  intemperate.  His  i)oetical  abilities,  however, 
again  led  to  his  temporary  elevation.  For  the  "  Invention  of  Letters,"  written 
at  the  request  of  the  president  of  Harvard  University,  he  received  it^een  hun- 
dred dollars;  for  "The  Ruling  Passion,"  a  jwem  recited  before  the  Phi  Beta 
Kappa  Society,  but  little  less;  and  for  the  above  poem,  which  he  entitled 
"Adams  and  Liberty,"  seven  hundred  and  fifty  dollars.  He  read  law  with 
Oiief-Justice  Parsons,  was  admitted  in  1802,  and  commenced  practice  with 
great  success;  but  he  unfortunately  soon  after  returned  to  his  unsettled  mode  of 
life,  and  died  on  the  I'.iih  of  November,  1811.  His  works  were  collected  by 
Charles  Prentiss,  and  published  at  Boston,  in  1812,  in  one  large  »vo.  volume. 
Paine  wrote  with  remarkable  facility.  On  exhibiting  the  above  poem,  at  the 
house  of  a  frienil,  it  was  jironounced  imperfect,  as  the  name  of  Washingt<.)N  waa 
onutted.  The  poet  mused  a  moment,  called  for  a  pen,  and  immediately  wrote 
tlie  gtli  stanza,  which  is,  perliaps,  the  best  in  the  song. 


113.  The  Marseilles  Hymn. 

1.  ^y"E  sons  of  France,  awake  to  glory ! 

-L    Ilark !  hark !  what  myriads  bid  you  rise  I 
Your  children,  wives,  and  grandsires  hoary, — 

Behold  their  tears,  and  hear  their  cries ! 
Shall  hateful  tyrants,  mischiefs  breeding, 
Wifti  hireling  hosts,  a  ruffian  band, 
Afifright  and  desolate  the  land. 
While  liberty  and  peace  lie  bleeding? 
To  arms !  to  arms !  ye  brave ! 

The  aveno-inof  s?ford  unsheafhe! 
March  on  !  march  on  !  all  hearts  resolved 
On  victory  or  death  ! 


THE    MAKSKILLKS    ^VM:^^.  355 

2.  Now,  now,  the  daiio-erous  slomi  is  rolling, 

AVhich  treacherous  kings,  confederate  rai»c ; 
The  dogs  of  war,  let  loose,  arc  howling, 

And,  lo !  our  fields  and  cities  bhize. 
And  shall  we  basely  view  the  ruin, 
While  lawless  force,  witii  guilty  stride, 
Spreads  desolation  far  and  wide, 
With  crimes  and  blood  his  hands  imbruing  ? 
To  arms !  to  arms !  ye  brave ! 

The  avenging  sz^^ord  unsheaflie ! 
March  on  !  march  on  !  all  hearts  resolved 
On  victory  or  death  ! 

4.  With  luxury  and  pride  surrounded, 
The  vile  insatiate  despots  dare — 
Their  thirst  of  power  and  gold  unbounded — 

To  mete  and  vend  the  light  and  air. 
Like  beasts  of  burden  would  they  load  us, 
Like  gods,  would  bid  their  slaves  adore ; 
But  man  is  man,  and  who  is  more  ? 
Then  shall  they  longer  lash  and  goad  us? 
To  arms !  to  arms !  ye  brave ! 

The  avenging  sz^ord  unsheafhe ! 
March  on  !  march  on  1  all  hearts  resolved 
On  victory  or  death  1 

4.  O  Liberty !  can  man  resign  thee, 

Once  having  felt  thy  generous  flame  ? 
Can  dungeons,  bolts,  or  bars  confine  thee, 

Or  whips  thy  noble  spirit  tame  ? 
Too  long  the  world  has  wept,  bewailing. 
That  falsehood's  dagger  tyrants  wield ; 
But  freedom  is  our  sii;ord  and  shield. 
And  all  their  arts  are  unavailing. 
To  arras !  to  arm^ !  ye  brave  ! 

The  avenging  sword  unsheafhe  ! 
March  on  !  march  on  !  all  hearts  resolved 

On  victory  or  death !  Rouget  de  Lislb. 

Joseph  Rouget  oe  Lisle  was  born  jMay  10th,  1760,  at  Lons-le-Sauuier,  in  the 
!iei>artiiieat  of  Jura.    He  was  an  o.iicer  in  tlie  French  Revolution,  and  ever 


356  NATIONAL    Finn     RKADKR. 

cnerislieil  republican  principles.  He  is  best  known  as  the  author  of  the  "  Mar- 
8eillaise,"  or  "3Iarseilles  Hymn,"  which  lie  wrote  and  set  to  music  in  one 
nifiht,  at  Strasburg,  in  the  winter  of  17i)l-17".t2.  This  becanie  the  national  song 
of  the  French  patriots,  and  was  famous  in  Kurope  and  America.  Its  author, 
however,  was  imprisoiK^d  in  the  iieipn  of  Terror,  and  only  escaped  the  scaffold 
by  the  fall  of  Kol^espierre.  On  the  restoration  of  the  Bourbons  it  was  suppressed  *, 
but  the  revolution  of  1830  called  it  up  anew,  and  Louis  PuiLirPE  bestowed  on  the 
author  a  pension  of  fifteen  hundred  francs  from  his  private  purse.  RounET  OE 
Lisle  published  other  pieces,  both  in  prose  and  verse.    He  died  in  1836 


IM.  Paul  Flemming  Resolves 

AND  now  tl  e  sun  was  growing  high  and  warm.  A  little 
chapel,  whose  door  stood  open,  seemed  to  invite  Flemining 
to  enter  and  enjoy  the  grateful  coolness.  He  went  in.  There' 
was  no  one  there.  The  walls  were  covered  with  paintings  and 
sculpture  of  the  rudest^  kind,  and  with  a  few  funeral  tablets. 
There  was  nothing'  there  to  move  the  heart  to  devotion  ;  but  in 
that  hour  the  heart  of  Flemming  was  weak, — weak  as  a  child's. 
lie  bowed  his  stubborn  knees  and  wept.  And  oh !  how  many 
disappointed  hopes,  how  many  bitter  recollections,  how  much  of 
wounded  pride,  and  unrequited  love,  were  in  those  tears,  through 
which  he  read  on  a  marble  tablet  in  the  chapel  wall  opposite, 
this  singular  inscription :  "  Look  not  mournfully  into  the  past  : 
It  comes  not  back  again.  Wisely  improve  the  present:  It 
IS  thine.     Go  forth  to  meet  the  shadowy  future,  without 

FEAR,  AND  WITH  A  MANLY  HEART." 

2.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  unknown  tenant  of  that  grave 
had  opened  his  lips  of  dust,  and  spoken  to  him  the  words  of  con- 
solation, which  his  soul  needed,  and  which  no  friend  had  yet 
spoken.  In  a  moment  the  anguish  of  his  thoughts  was  still. 
The  stone  was  rolled  away  from  the  door  of  his  heart ;  death 
was  no  longer  there,  but  an  angel  clothed  in  white.  He  stood 
up,  and  his  eyes  were  no  more  bleared  wifli  tears ;  and,  looking 
into  the  bright,  morning  heaven,  he  said,  "I  will  be  strong!" 

3.  Men  sometimes  go  down  into  tombs,  wifli  painful  longings 
to  behold  once  more  the  faces  of  their  departed  friends;  and  as 
they  gaze  upon  them,  lying  there  so  peacefully  with  tie  sem- 
blance that  they  wore  on  earth,  the  sweet  breath  of  heaven 

*  There  (thilr  .— •  Rudest  (rfid'  est).—*  N(»thing  (n&th'  ing;. 


PAUL    FLEMMING    RESOLVES.  357 

touches  them,  and  the  features  crumble  and  fall  together,  and 
are  but  dust.  So  did  his  soul  then  descend  for  the  last'  time 
into  the  great  tomb  of  the  past,^  with  painful  longings  to  behold 
once  more  the  dear  farces  of  those  he  had  loved ;  and  the  sweet 
breath  of  heaven  touched  them,  and  they  would  not  stay,  but 
crumbled  away  and  perished  as  he  gazed.  They,  too,  were  dust. 
And  thus,  far-sounding,  he  heard^  the  great  gate  of  the  past  shut 
behind  him  as  the  divine  poet  did  the  gate  of  paradise,  when 
the  angel  pointed  him  the  way  up  the  holy  mountain ;  and  to 
him  likewise  was  it  forbidden  to  look  back. 

4.  In  the  life  of  every  man.  there  are  sudden  transitions  of 
feeling,  which  seem  almost  miraculous.  At  once,  as  if  some 
magician  had  touched  the  heavens  and  the  earth,*  the  dark  clouds 
melt  into  the  air,  the  wind  falls,  and  serenity  succeeds  the  storm. 
The  causes  which  produce  these  sudden  changes  may  have  been 
l6ng  at  work  within  us,  but  the  changes  themselves  are  instan- 
taneous, and  apparently*  without  sufficient  cause.  It  was  so  wifli 
Flemming,  and  from  that  hour  forth  he  resolved  that  he  would 
no  longer  veer  with  every  shifting  wind  of  circumstance;  no 
jonger  be  a  child's  plaything  in  the  hands  of  fate,  which  we  our- 
selves do  make  or  mar.  He  resolved  henceforward  not  to  lean 
on  others ;  but  to  walk  self-confident  and  self-possessed  :  no 
longer  to  waste  his  years  in  vain  regrets,  nor  wait  the  fulfilment 
of  boundless  hopes  and  indiscreet  desires;  but  to  live  in  the 
present  wisely,  ahke  forgetful  of  the  past,  and  careless^  of  what 
the  mysterious  future  might  bring.  And  from  that  moment  he 
was  calm,^  and  strong;  he  was  reconciled  with  himself! 

5.  His  thoughts  turned  to  his  distant  home  beyond  the  sea. 
An  indescribable,  sweet  feeling  rose  within  him.  "  Thithei  will 
I  tui-n  my  wandering  footsteps,"  said  he ;  "  and  be  a  man  among 
men,  and  no  longer  a  dreamer  among  shadows.  Henceforth  be 
mine  a  hfe  of  action  and  reality !  I  will  work*  in  my  own  sphere, 
nor  wish  it  other  than  it  is.  This  alone  is  health  and  happiness. 
This  alone  is  life — 

*  Life  that  shall  send 
A  challenge  to  its  end. 
And  when  it  comes,  say,  Welcome,  friend!' 

» list.—'  past.—  '  Heard  (herd).—*  Earth  (5rth).— •  A.p  p&r'ently.— 
»Cire'Iesi?.— 'Ci^Zm.—  Work  (w^rk). 


858  NATION  A  I.    KirrH     lilCAUKK. 

G.  "Why  have  I  not  made  these  sage  reflections,  this  wise 
resolve,  sooner?  Can  such  a  simple  result  spring  only  from  the 
long  and  intricate  process  of  experience?  Alas!  it  is  not  till 
time,  witli  reckless  hand,  has  torn  out  half  the  leaves  from  the 
book  of  human  life,  to  light  the  fires  of  passion  with,  from  day 
to  day,  that  man  begins  to  see  that  the  leaves  which  remain  are 
few  in  number,  and  to  remember,  faintly  at  first,  and  then  more 
clearly,  that  upon  the  earlier  pages  of  that  book  was  written  a 
story  of  happy  innocence,  which  he  would  fain  read  over  again. 
Then  come  listless  irresolution,  and  the  inevitable  inaction  of 
despair ;  or  else  the  firm  resolve  to  record  upon  the  leaves  that 
still  remain,  a  more  noble  history  than  the  child's  story,  with 
which  the  book  began."  H.  W.  Longfelt.ow. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  was  born  in  the  city  of  Portland,  Maine, 
on  the 'iTth  of  February,  1807.  He  entered  Bowdoin  College  at  fourteen,  and 
graduated  in  due  course.  He  soon  after  comtnenced  the  stuily  of  law,  in  the 
office  of  his  father,  the  Hon.  Stephen  Longfellow,  but  being  appointed  pro- 
fessor of  modern  languages  at  Bowdoin,  m  182(5,  he  sailed  for  Europe  to  prepare 
himself  for  the  duties  of  his  otiice,  where  he  passed  three  years  and  a  half.  On 
nis  return,  he  entered  upon  the  labors  of  instruction.  Mr.  Longfellow  being 
elected  professor  of  modern  languages  and  literature  in  Harvard  College,  in 
1835,  resigned  his  place  in  Brunswick,  and  went  a  second  time  to  Europe,  to 
make  himself  better  acquainted  with  the  subjects  of  his  studies  in  Denmark, 
Sweden,  and  Germany.  On  his  return  liome,  in  1830,  he  immediately  entered 
upon  his  labors  at  Cambridge,  where  he  has  since  resided.  In  185-J  lie  resigned 
liis  professorsliip  at  Harvard.  His  earliest  poems  were  written  for  "  The  United 
States  Gazette,"  printed  in  Boston,  while  he  was  an  under- graduate,  from  which 
period  he  lias  been  recognized  as  among  the  first  writers  of  prose  ami  verse  of 
the  nineteenth  century.  During  his  subsequent  residence  at  Brunswick,  he 
wrote  several  elegant  and  very  able  papers  for  the  "  North  American  Review,*' 
translated  "  Coplas  de  Manrique,"  and  published  "  Outre  31  jr,"  a  collection  ot 
agreeable  tales  and  sketciies,  chieliy  written  during  his  first  residence  abroad. 
'''Hyperion,"  a  romance,  appeared  in  1839,  and  "Kavanagh,"  another  prose 
work,  in  1848.  The  first  coilection  of  his  poems  was  published  in  1839,  entitled 
"Voices  of  the  Night."  His  "Ballads  and  other  Poems"  followed  in  1841; 
"  The  Spanish  Student,"  a  play,  in  1843  ;  "  Poems  on  Slavery,"  in  1844  ;  "  The 
Belfry  of  Bruges,  and  other  Poems,"  in  1845 ;  "  Evangeline,  a  Tale  of  Arcadie," 
m  1847;  "The  Sea  and  Fireside,"  in  1849;  "The  Golden  Legend,"  in  1851; 
and  "  Hiawatha,"  in  1855.  In  1845  he  published  "  The  Poets  and  Poetry  of 
Europe,"  the  most  complete  and  satisfactory  work  of  the  kind  that  has  ever  ap- 
peared in  any  language.  "The Skeleton  in  Armor"  is  one  of  the  longest  and 
most  uni(iue  of  his  original  poems.  "  Hiawatha,"  his  longest  poem,  which  ia 
purely  original  and  American,  has  been  republished  in  England,  and  has  met 
with  a  popularity,  both  in  Europe  and  America,  not  surpassed  by  any  poem  of 
the  present  century.  The  high  finish,  gracefulnes.s,  and  vivid  beauty  of  his 
style,  and  the  moral  purity  and  earnest  humanity  portrayed  in  his  verse,  exciie 
the  sympathy  and  reacii  the  heart  of  the  public. 


PKOCRASTINATION.  359 

115.  Procrastination. 

1.  "HE  wise  to-day ;'  'tis  madness  to  defer  :' 

jJ  Next  day  the  fatal  pre'cedent'^  will  plead; 
Thus  on,  till  wisdom  is  push'd  out  of  life. 
Procrastination  is  the  thief  of  time ; 
Year  after'  year  it  steals,  till  all  are  fled, 
And  to  the  mercies'*  of  a  moment  leaves 
The  vast*  concerns*  of  an  eternaF  scene. 
If  not  so  frequent,  would  not  this  be  strange  ? 
That  'tis  so  frequent,  this  is  stranger  still. 

2.  Of  man's  miraculous  mistakes  this  bears' 
The  palm,  "  that  all  men  are  about  to  live," 
Forever  on  the  brink  of  being  born ; 

All  pay  themselves  the  compliment  to  think 

They  one  day  shall  not  drivel,^  and  their  pride 

On  this  reversion'"  takes  up  ready  praise ; 

At  least  their  own  ;  their  future  selves  applaud; 

How  excellent  that  life  they  ne'er  will  lead  ! 

Time  lodged  in  their  own  hands  is  Folly's  vails; 

That  lodged  in  Fate's  to  wisdom  they  consign ; 

The  thing  they  can't  but  purpose,''  they  postpone. 

'Tis  not  in  folly  not  to  scorn  a  fool, 

And  scarce"^  in  human  wisdom  to  do  more. 

8.  All  promise  is  poor  dilatory  man. 

And  til  at  through  every  stage.     When  young  indeed, 

In  full  content  we  sometimes  nobly  rest, 

Unanxious  for  ourselves,  and  only  wish. 

As  duteous  sons,  our  fathers  were  more  wise. 

At  thirty  man  suspects  himself  a  fool ; 

Knows  it  at  forty,  and  reforms  his  plan ; 

At  fifty  chides  his  in'famous  delay. 

Pushes  his  prudent  purpose  to  resolve ; 

^  De  fir'. — '  PrSc'  e  dent,  that  which,  going  before,  is  a  rule  or  exam- 
ple for  following  times  or  practice. — 'After  (Aft' er). — *  Mercies  (mlr'- 
sez). — '  V&st. — «  Concerns  (Icon  sirnz'), — '  E  t^r'  nal. — *  Bears  (b^rz). — 
•  Drivel  (drlv'  vl),  slaver  ;  be  weak  or  foolish. — '"  Re  vir'  sion,  act  of  re- 
verting or  changing:. — "  Purpose  (pSr'  pos). — "  Scirce. 


360  .N«.llONAL    F-TFrU    READER. 

In  all  tlic  raagnanimity  of  thought, 

Resolves,  and  ro-rcsolvcs ;  then  dies  the  same. 

4    And  why  ?  because  he  thinks  himself  immortaL 
All  men  think  all  men  mortal  but  themselves ; 
Themselves,  when  some  alarming  shock  of  fate 
Strikes  through'  their^  wounded  hearts  the  sudden  dread : 
But  their  hearts  wounded,  like  the  wounded  air, 
Soon  close ;  where'  past"  the  shaft*  no  trace  is  found, 
As  from  the  wing  no  scar  the  sky  retains, 
The  parted  wave  no  furrow  from  the  keel. 
So  dies  in  human  hearts  the  thought  of  death : 
E'en  wifh  the  tender  tear  which  nature  sheds 
O'er  those  we  love,  we  drop  it  in  their  grave. 

Edward  Younq. 

FxlwARD  Young,  author  of  the  "  Night  Thioughts,"  was  bom  at  his  father's 
parsonage,  in  Hampshire,  England,  in  1681.  He  was  educated  at  Winchester 
5^chool,  and  at  All  Souls  College,  Oxford.  In  1712  he  commenced  public  life  as 
a  courtier  and  poet,  and  continued  both  characters  till  he  was  past  eighty. 
From  1708  he  held  a  fellowship  at  Oxford.  In  1730  his  college  presented  him  to 
the  rectory  of  Welwyn,  in  Hertfordshire,  valued  at  £300  a  year.  In  1731  he 
married  a  widow,  the  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Lichfield,  which  proved  a  happy 
union.  Lady  Elizabeth  Young  died  in  1741 ;  and  her  husband  is  supposed  to 
have  begun  soon  afterward  the  composition  of  the  "  Night  Thoughts."  Of  his 
numerous  works  published  previous  to  this  period,  the  best  are  his  satires,  which 
were  collected  in  1728,  under  the  title  of  "  The  Love  of  Fame  the  Universal 
Passion."  and  "The  Revenge,"  a  tragedy,  which  appeared  in  1721.  Sixty 
years  of  labor  and  industry  had  strengthened  and  enriched  his  genius,  and  aug- 
mented the  brilliancy  of  his  fancy,  preparatory  to  writing  "  Night  Thoughts." 
The  publication  of  this  poem,  taking  jjlace  in  sections,  was  completed  in  1746. 
It  is  written  in  a  highly  artificial  style,  and  has  more  of  epigramatic  point  than 
any  other  work  in  the  language.  Though  often  brilliant  at  the  expense  of  highei 
and  more  important  qualities,  the  poet  introduces  many  noble  and  sublime  pas- 
sages, and  enforces  the  truths  of  religion  with  a  commanding  energy  and  pei^ 
suasion.  The  fertility  of  his  fancy,  the  pregnancy  of  his  wit  and  knowledge,  the 
striking  and  felicitous  combinations  everywhere  presented,  are  truly  remarkable 
Young  died  in  April,  1765,  at  the  advanced  age  of  eighty-four. 


116.  Beauty. 


THE  high  and  divine  beauty  which  can  be  loved  without  ef- 
feminacy, is  that  which  is  found  in  combination  wifli  the 
human  will,  and  never  separate.     Beauty  is  the  mark  G6d  seta 

» Through  (thrA).— 'Their  (thir). -'Where  (wliAr).— *  Pist.— •ShUft. 


BEA.UTV'.  3()1 

apon  virtue.  Every  nat.iral  action  is  graceful.  Every  heroic 
act  is  also  decent,  and  causes  the  place  and  the  bystanders  to 
shine. 

2.  We  are  taught  by  great  actions  that  the  universe  15  the 
property  of  every  individual  in  it.  Every  rational  creature  has 
all  nature  for  his  dowry  and  estate.  It  is  his,  if  he  will.  IJe 
may  divest  himself  of  it;  he  may  creep  into  a  corner,  and  abdi- 
cate his  kingdom,  as  most  men  do;  but  he  is  entitled  to  the 
world  by  his  constitution.  In  proportion  to  the  energy  of  his 
thought  and  will,  he  takes  up  the  world  into  himself.  "All 
those  things  for  which  men  plow,  build,  or  sail,  obey  virtue," 
said  an  ancient  historian.  "  The  winds  and  waves,"  said  Gibbon,' 
"  are  alway  on  the  side  of  the  ablest  navigators."  So  are  the 
Bun  and  moon  and  all  the  stars  of  heaven. 

3.  When  a  noble  act  is  done, — perchance  in  a  scene  of  great 
natural  beauty ;  when  Leonidas^  and  his  three  hundred  martyrs 
consume  one  day  in  dying,  and  the  sun  and  moon  come  each 
and  look  at  them  once  in  the  steep  defile  of  Thermopylae ;  when 
Arnold  Winkelried,^  in  the  high  Alps,  under  the  shadow  of  the 
avalanche,  gathers  in  his  side  a  sheaf  of  Austrian  spears  to  break 
the  line  for  his  comrades ;  are  not  these  heroes  entitled  to  add 
the  beauty  of  the  scene  to  the  beauty  of  the  deed  ?  When  the 
bark  of  Columbus'*  nears  the  shore  of  America, — before  it,  the 
beach  lined  with  savages,  fleeing  out  of  all  their  huts  of  cane — 
the  sea  behind,  and  the  purple  mountains  of  the  Indian^  Archi- 
pelago® around, — can  we  separate  the  man  from  the  living  pic- 
ture ?  Does  not  the  New  World  clothe  his  form  with  her  p&lm- 
groves  and  savannahs  as  fit  drapery  ? 

*  Gibbon,  see  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  77. — '  Leonidas,  see  p.  S53, 
note  3. — '  Arnold  Winkelried,  a  Switzer  of  the  fourteenth  century,  the 
glory  of  whose  heroic,  voluntary  death,  is  not  surpassed  in  the  annal? 
of  history.  In  the  battle  of  Shempach,  perceiving  that  there  was  no 
other  means  of  breaking  the  heavy-armed  lines  of  the  Austrians,  he  ran 
with  extended  arms,  and  gathering  as  many  of  their  spears  as  he 
tx)uld  grasp,  thus  opened  a  passage  for  his  countrymen,  who,  with 
hatchets  and  hammers,  slaughtered  the  mailed  men-at-arms,  and  won 
the  victory. — *  Christopher  Columbus,  the  discoverer  of  the  New  World, 
was  born  in  Genoa,  about  the  year  1435  or  1436,  and  died  at  Seville 
Spain,  on  the  20lh  of  May,  1506. — '  Indian  (Ind' y an). — 'Archipekigo 
(^rkepl'l'  ag*>> 

16 


362  NATIONAL    KiriH    KKADKK. 

4.  Ever  does  natural  beauty  steal  in  like  air,  and  envelop 
great  actions.  When  Sir  ]larry  Vane'  was  draoged  up  tlie 
Tower-hill,  sitting  on  a  sled,  to  sufler  death  as  the  chauipion  of 
the  English  laws,  one  of  the  multitude  cried  out  to  him,  "  You 
never  sat  on  so  glorious  a  sent."  Charles  11.,  to  intimidate  the 
•titizens  of  London,  caused  the  patriot  Lord  Russell*  to  be  drawn 
in  an  open  coach,  through  the  principal  streets  of  the  city,  on 
his  way  to  the  scaffold.  "  But,"  to  use  the  simple  narrative  of 
lis  biographer,  "the  multitude  imagined  they  saw  liberty  and 
virtue  sitting  by  his  side." 

5.  In  private  places,  among  sordid  objects,  an  act  of  truth  or 
heroism  seems  at  once  to  draw  to  itself  the  sky  as  its  temple, 
the  sun  as  its  candle.  Nature  stretcheth  out  her  arms  to  em- 
brace man,  only  let  his  thoughts  be  of  equal  greatness.  Willing- 
ly does  she  follow  his  steps  with  the  rose  and  the  violet,  and 
bend  her  lines  of  grandeur  ;ind  grace  to  the  decoiatioii  of  her 
darling  child.  Only  let  his  thoughts  be  of  equal  scope,  and  the 
frame  will  suit  the  pictuie.  A  virtuous  man  is  in  unison  with 
her  works,  and  makes  the  central  figure  of  the  visible  spher*;. 

Emkkson. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  a  son  of  the  Rev.  William  Emekson,  was  born  iu 
Boston,  about  the  year  JKi.'},  took  his  degree  of  l)aclielor  of  arts  at  Harvard  Col- 
lege in  1821,  studied  theology,  and,  in  IH--'{»,  was  ortlained  the  colleague  of  the 
late  Rev.  Henry  Ware,  jr.,  over  tlip  second  Unitarian  church  of  his  native  city ; 
but  subsequently,  becoming  independent  of  the  control  of  set  regulations  of  re- 
ligious worship,  retired  to  Concord,  where,  in  18:}.'),  he  purchased  the  house  in 
which  he  has  since  resided,  except  two  excursions  in  Europe,  during  the  latter 
of  which,  iu  1847,  he  delivered  a  (tourse  of  lectures  in  Lontlon,  and  other  parts 
of  England.  He  has  been  a  coninbutor  to  "The  North  American  Review'' 
and  "The  Christian  Examiner,"  uiid  was  two  years  editor  of  "The  Dial."  e» 
tablished  in  Boston,  by  Mr.  Ripley,  in  1840.  He  published  several  orations  and 
addresses  in  1837-38-39-40,  and  in  1841  the  first  series  of  his  "  F*ssays,"  in  1844 
the  second  series  of  his  "  Essays,"  in  1846  a  collection  of  his  "  Poems,"  iu  185] 


*  Sir  Hbnry  Vane,  a  republican  and  religionist,  was  born  at  Hadlow, 
iu  Kent,  England,  in  1612.  He  was  among  the  earliest  of  those  whom 
religious  opinion  induced  to  seek  a  home  in  America.  He  was  appoint- 
ed governor  of  Massachusetts  in  1635.  returned  to  England  the  follow- 
ing year,  married  there,  entered  parliament,  oi^posed  the  king,  became 
one  of  tlie  council  of  state  on  the  establishment  of  the  commonwealth, 
and,  after  the  restoration,  wa.-!  condemned  for  tr«'»vson,  and  boliearied 
June  14,  1002.  He  wrote  several  works,  cliietiy  religions. — 'Lord  Wil- 
liam Russkll.  born  on  the  29th  of  bepicmVior,  Ifiy,  and  beheaded  ou 
the2l8tof  July,  1083. 


TllK   CLOSING    Yl'.kR.  363 

**  Representative  Men,"  in  1852,  in  connection  witli  \^  .  H.Ciianning  ana  James 
Freeman  Clarke,  "  Memoirs  of  Margaret  Fuller  Obsou,"  ami  in  IH56 
'  English  TraiLs."  Mr.  Emerson  is  an  able  lecturer,  a  most  distinguished  es- 
sayist, and  an  eminent  poeL  He  perceives  tiie  evils  in  society,  the  lalselioods  oi 
pojiular  opinions,  and  the  uniiappy  tendencies  of  common  feeUngs.  He  is  an 
original  and  indejiendent  thinker,  and  commands  attention  both  by  the  novelty 
of  his  views  and  the  graces  and  peculiarities  of  his  style. 


117.  The  Closing  Year. 

'npiS  midnight's  holy  hour — and  silence  now 
-L   Is  brooding,  like  a  gentle  spirit,  o'er 
The  still  and  pulseless  world.     Hark!  on  the  winds 
The  bell's  deep  tones  are  swelling — 'tis  the  knell 
Of  the  departed  year.     No  funeral  train 
Is  sweeping  past ;  yet,  on  the  stream  and  wood, 
With  melancholy  light,  the  moonbeams  rest 
Like  a  pale,  spotless  shroud ;  the  air  is  stirr'd 
As  by  a  mourner's  sigh ;  and  on  yon  cloud, 
That  floats  so  still  and  placidly  through  heaven, 
The  spirits  of  the  seasons  seem  to  stand, — 
Young  Spring,  bright  Summer,  Autumn's  solemn  form 
And  Winter  with  his  aged  locks, — and  breathe, 
In  mournful  cadences,  that  come  abroad 
Like  the  far  wind-harp's  wild  and  touching  wail, 
A  melancholy  dirge  o'er  the  dead  year, 
Gone  from  the  earth  forever. 

'Tis  a  time 
For  memory  and  for  tears.     Within  the  deep, 
Still  chambers  of  the  heart,  a  specter  dim. 
Whose  tones  are  like  the  wizard  voice  of  Time, 
Heard  from  the  tomb  of  ages,  points  its  cold 
And  solemn  finger  to  the  beautiful 
And  holy  visions  that  have  pass'd  away. 
And  left  no  shadow  of  their  loveliness 
On  the  dead  waste  of  life.     That  specter  lifts 
The  coffin-lid  of  Hope,  and  Joy,  and  Love, 
And,  bending  mournfully  above  the  pale. 
Sweet  forms,  that  slumber  there,  scatters  dead  flower* 
O'er  what  has  pass'd  to  nothingness. 


364  NATIONAL   FIFTH   READEil. 

3  The  year 

Has  gone,  and,  wifli  it,  many  a  glorious  throng 
Of  happy  dreams.     Its  mark  is  on  each  brow, 
Its  shadow  in  each  heart.     In  its  swift  course, 
It  waved  its  scepter  o'er  the  beautiful — 
And  they  are  not.     It  laid  its  pallid  hand 
Upon  the  strong  man — and  the  haughty  form 
Is  fallen,  and  the  flashing  eye  is  dim. 
It  trod  the  hall  of  revelry,  where  throng'd 
The  bright  and  joyous — and  the  tearful  wail 
Of  stricken  ones  is  heard,  where  erst  the  song 
And  reckless  shout  resounded. 

4.  It  pass'd  o'er 

The  battle-plain,  where  st^ord,  and  spear,  and  shield, 
Flash'd  in  the  light  of  mid-day, — and  the  strength 
Of  serried  hosts  is  shiver'd,  and  the  grass. 
Green  from  the  soil  of  carnage,  waves  above 
The  crush'd  and  moldering  skeleton.     It  came. 
And  faded  like  a  wreath  of  mist  at  eve ; 
Yet,  ere  it  melted  in  the  viewless  air, 
It  heralded  its  millions  to  their  home 
In  the  dim  land  of  dreams. 

5.  Remorseless  Time ! 
Fierce  spirit  of  the  glass  and  scythe ! — what  power 
Can  stay  him  in  his  silent  course,  or  melt 

His  iron  heart  to  pity  ?     On,  still  on 

He  presses,  and  forever.     The  proud  bird, 

The  condor  of  the  Andes,  that  can  s5ar 

Through  heaven's  unfathomable  depths,  or  brave 

The  fury  of  the  northern  hurricane. 

And  bathe  his  plumage  in  the  thunder's  home, 

Furls  his  broad  wings  at  nightfall,  and  sinks  down 

To  rest  upon  his  mountain  crag, — but  Time 

Knows  not  the  weight  of  sleep  or  weariness. 

And  night's  deep  darkness  has  no  chain  to  bind 

His  rushing  pinions. 

6.  Revolutions  sweep 

O'er  earth,  like  troubled  visions  o\r  the  i)rejU5t 


DKA'ni    OF     niK    VIA)    TRAPPER.  365 

Oi  dreaming  sorrow  ;  cities  rise  and  sink, 

Like  bubbles  on  the  water ;  fiery  isles 

Spring  blazing  from  the  ocean,  and  go  back 

To  their  mysterious  caverns ;  mountains  rear 

To  heaven  their  bald  and  blackcn'd  cliffs,  and  bow 

Their  tall  heads  to  the  plain;  new  empires  rise, 

(iathcriiig  the  strength  of  hoary  centuries. 

And  rush  down  like  the  Alpine  avalanche. 

Startling  the  nations, — and  the  very  stars. 

Yon  bright  and  burning  blazonry  of  God, 

Glitter  a  while  in  their  eternal  depths, 

And,  like  the  Pleiad,  loveliest  of  their  train. 

Shoot  from  their  glorious  spheres,  and  pass  away, 

To  darkle  in  the  trackless  void  :  yet  Time — 

Time,  the  tomb-builder,  holds  his  fierce  career, 

Dark,  stern,  all-pitiless,  and  pauses  not 

Amid  the  mighty  wrecks  that  strew  his  path. 

To  sit  and  muse,  like  other  conqueroi-s, 

Upon  the  fearful  ruin  he  has  wrought.     G.  D.  Pbentijb, 

(Jeoroe  D.  Prentick  was  born  at  Preston,  in  Connecticut,  December  18th, 
1802,  and  was  educated  at  Krowu  University,  in  Providence,  where  he  gradu- 
ated in  18"i3.  In  IBiH  lie  conniienced  "Tiie  New  England  Weekly  Review,"  at 
Ilarlford,  which  he  edited  tor  two  years,  when,  resigning  its  management  to 
Mr.  WnrrxiER,  he  reniovetl  to  Louisville,  Kentucky,  where  he  has  since  con- 
duoted  the  "Journal,"  of  that  city,  one  ol"  the  most  popular  gazettes  ever  pub- 
lished in  this  country.  His  numerous  iwetical  writings  have  never  been  pub- 
lished collectively. 


118.    Dkatii  of  the  Old  Trapper. 

THE  trapper  was  placed  on  a  rude  seat,  which  had  been"  made 
wifh  studied  c;ire,  to  support  his  frame  in  an  upright  and 
easv  attitude.  The  first  glance  of  the  eye  told  his  former  friends 
that  the  old  man  was  at  length  called  upon  to  pay  the  last  tribi'.te 
of  nature.  His  eye  was  glazed,  and  apparently  as  devoid  of  -^ght 
as  of  expression.  His  features  were  a  little  more  sunken  and 
strongly  marked  than  formei'ly ;  but  there,  all  change,  so  far  as 
oxtei'ior  was  concerned,  might  be  said  to  have  ceased. 

2.  His  approaching  end  was  not  to  be  ascribed  to  any  posi- 
tive disease,  but  had  been  a  gradual  and  mild  decay  of  the  phys- 


306  NATIONAL    FIl'TII     KKADKK. 

ical  powers.  Life,  it  is  true,  still  lingered  in  his  system ;  but  it 
was  as  if  at  times  entirely  ready  to  depart,  and  then  it  would 
appear  to  reanimate  the  sinkii.g  form,  reluetant  to  give  up  the 
possession  of  a  tenement  that  had  never  been  corrupted  by  vice 
or  undermined  oy  disease.  It  would  have  been  no  violent  fancy 
to  have  imagined  that  the  spirit  fluttered  about  the  placid  lips 
of  the  old  woodsman,  reluctant  to  depart  from  a  :5hell  that  had 
80  long  given  it  an  honest  and  honorable  shelter. 

3.  His  body  was  placed  so  as  to  let  the  light  of  the  setting- 
gun  fall  full  upon  the  solemn  features.  His  head  Wiis  bare,  the 
long,  thin  locks  of  gray  fluttering  lightly  in  the  evening  breeze. 
IJift  ride  lay  upon  his  knee,  and  the  other  accouterments  of  the 
chase  were  placed  at  his  side,  within  reach  of  his  hand.  Between 
his  feet  lay  the  figure  of  a  hound,  wifli  its  head  crouching  to  the 
earth,  as  if  it  slumbered ;  and  so  perfectly  easy  and  natural  was 
its  position,  that  a  second  glance  was  necessary  to  tell  Middleton 
he  saw  only  the  skin  of  Hector,  stuffed,  by  Indian  tenderness 
and  ingenuity,  in  a  manner  to  represent  the  living  animal. 

4.  The  old  man  was  reaping  the  rewards  of  a  life  remarkable 
for  temperance  and  activity,  in  a  tranquil  and  placid  death.  His 
vigor,  in  a  manner,  endured  to  the  very  last.  Decay,  when  it 
di<i  occur,  was  rapid,  but  free  from  pain.  He  had  hunted  with 
the  tribe  in  the  spring,  and  even  throughout  most  of  the  sum- 
mer; when  his  limbs  suddenly  refused  to  perform  their  cus- 
tomary offices.  A  sympathizing  weakness  took  possession  of  all 
his  faculties ;  and  the  Pawnees  believed  they  were  going  to  lose, 
vn  this  unexpected  manner,  a  sage  and  counsellor  whom  they 
had  begun  both  to  love  and  respect. 

0.  Hut,  iis  we  have  already  said,  the  immortal  occupant 
tjeemed  unwilling  to  desert  its  tenement.  The  lamp  of  life  flick- 
ered, without  becomino'  extinguished.  On  the  morninor  of  the 
day  on  which  Mitldleton  arrived,  there  was  a  general  reviving 
of  the  powers  of  the  whole  man.  His  tongue  was  again  heard 
in  wholesome  maxims,  and  his  eye  from  time  to  time  recognized 
the  persons  of  his  friends.  It  merely  proved  to  be  a  brief  and 
final  intercourse  with  the  world,  on  the  part  of  one  who  had 
alrea«ly  been  considered,  as  to  mental  connn union,  to  have  taken 
his  leave  of  it  forever. 

0    When  he  had  placed  his  guests  in  front  of  the  dying  man. 


DKA'IU  OF  THE  OLD  TKAITEK.  367 

Hard-IIeait,  after  a  pause,  that  proceeded  as  much  from  sorrow 
as  decorum,  leaned  a  little  forward,  and  demanded — "  Does  my 
father  hear  the  words  of  his  son  ?"  "  Speak,"  returned  the  trap- 
per, in  tones  that  issued  from  his  chest,  hut  which  were  rendered 
,  awfully  distinct  by  the  stillness  that  reigned  in  the  place.  "  I 
am  about  to  depart  from  the  village  of  the  Loups,  and  shortly 
shall  be  beyond  the  reach  of  your  voice." 

7.  "  Let  the  wise  chief  have  no  cares  for  his  journey,"  contin- 
ued Hard-Heart,  with  an  earnest  solicitude  that  led  him  to  for- 
get, for  the  moment,  that  others  were  waiting  to  address  his 
adopted  parent;  "a  hundred  Loups  shall  clear  his  path  from 
briers."  "  Pawnee,  I  die,  as  I  have  lived,  a  Christian  man !"  re- 
suuK'd  the  trapper,  with  a  force  of  voice  that  had  the  same 
startling  effect  on  his  hearers  as  is  produced  by  the  trumpet, 
when  its  blast  rises  suddenly  and  freely  on  the  air,  after  its  ob- 
structed sounds  have  been  heard  struggling  in  the  distance:  "as 
I  came  into  life  so  will  I  leave  it.  Horses  and  arms  aie  not 
needed  to  stand  in  the  presence  of  the  Great  Spirit  of  my  pciople. 
He  knows  my  color,  and  according  to  my  gifts  will  he  judge  my 
deeds." 

8.  "My  father  will  tell  my  young  men  how  many  Mingoes  he 
has  struck,  and  what  acts  of  valor  and  justice  he  has  done,  that 
they  may  know  how  to  imitate  him."  "A  boastful  tongue  is 
not  heard  in  the  heaven  of  a  white  man!"  solemnly  returned  the 
old  man.  "  What  I  have  done  He  has  seen.  His  eyes  ai'e  al- 
way  open.  That  which  has  been  well  done  will  He  remember; 
wherein  I  have  been  wrong  will  He  not  forget  to  chastise, 
though  He  will  do  the  same  in  mercy.  No,  my  son,  a  pale-face 
may  not  sing  his  own  praises,  and  hope  to  have  them  acceptable 
before  his  God  1" 

9.  A  little  disappointed,  the  young  partisan  stepped  modestly 
back,  making  way  for  the  recent  comers  to  approach.  MiddK*- 
ton  took  one  of  the  meager  hands  of  the  trapper,  and  struggling 
lo  command  his  voice,  he  succeeded  in  announcing  his  presence. 
The  old  man  listened  like  one  whose  thoughts  were  dwelling  on 
a  very  ditferent  subject;  but  when  the  other  had  succeeded  in 
making  him  understand  that  he  was  present,  an  expression  of 
joyful  recognition  passed  over  his  hfhd  features.  "I  hope  yon 
have    not   so   soon    forgotten    those   whom   you   so   materially 


S6S  NxVnONAI,    FIFI'M     KEADKK. 

served !"  Middleton  concluded.     "  It  would  pain   nic  to   think 
ni\  hold  on  your  memory  was  so  light." 

10.  "Little  that  I  have  ever  seen  is  forgotten,"  returned  the 
trapper:  "I  am  at  the  clx)se  of  many  weary  days,  but  there  is 
not  one  among  them  all  that  I  could  wish  to  overlook.  1  re- 
member you,  wifli  the  whole  of  your  company ;  ay,  and  your 
gran'ther,  that  went  before  you.  I  am  glad  that  you  have  come 
l)ack  upon  these  plains,  for  I  had  need  of  one  who  speaks  the 
English,  since  little  faith  can  be  put  in  the  traders  of  these  re- 
gions. Will  you  do  a  favor  to  an  old  and  dying  man  ?'* 
"Name  it,"  said  Middleton;  "it  shall  be  done."  "Il  is  a  far 
journey  to  send  such  trifles,"  resumed  the  old  man,  wi  ,o  spoke 
at  short  intervals,  as  strength  and  breath  permitted ;  "  a  far  and 
weary  journey  is  the  same ;  but  kindnesses  and  friendships  are 
things  not  to  be  forgotten.  There  is  a  settlement  among  the 
Otsego  hills—" 

11.  "I  know  the  place,"  interrupted  Middleton,  observing 
that  Ue  spoke  wifh  increasing  difficulty;  "proceed  to  tell  me 
what  you  would  have  done."  "Take  this  rifle,  and  pouch,  and 
liorn,  and  send  them  to  the  person  whose  name  is  graven  on  the 
plates  of  the  stock, — a  trader  cut  the  letters  with  his  knife, — fo? 
it  is  long  that  I  have  intended  to  send  him  such  a  token  of  mi 
love !"  "  It  shall  be  so.  Is  there  more  that  you  could  wish  V 
"Little  else  have  I  to  bestow.  My  traps  1  give  to  my  Indian 
son ;  for  honestly  and  kindly  has  he  kept  his  faith.  Let  him 
stand  before  me."  Middleton  explained  to  the  chief  what  the 
trapper  had  said,  and  relinquished  his  own  place  to  the  other. 

12.  "Pawnee,"  continued  the  old  man,  alway  changing  his 
language  to  suit  the  person  he  addressed,  and  not  untVequently 
according  to  the  ideas  he  expressed,  "it  is  a  custom  of  my  people 
for  the  father  to  leave  his  blessing  wifli  the  son  before  he  shuts 
his  eyes  forever.  This  blessing  I  give  to  you :  take  it ;  for  the 
prayers  of  a  Christian  man  will  never  make  the  path  of  a  just 
warrior  to  the  blessed  prairies  either  longer  or  more  tangled. 
May  the  God  of  a  white  man  look  on  your  deeds  ^Yith  friendly 
eyes,  and  may  you  never  commit  an  act  that  shall  cause  him  to 
darken  his  face.  I  l^Tlow  not  whether  we  shall  ever  meet  again. 
There  are  many  traditions  coiicerr  ing  the  place  of  Good  Spirits. 
It  is  not  tor  one  like  me,  oU  and  experienced  thoagh  1  am,  to 


DEATH    OF    THK    Ol.D    TKAPPER.  369 

set  up  my  opinions  against  a  nation's.  You  believe  in  tlie 
blessed  prairies,  and  I  have  faith  in  the  sayings  of  my  fathers. 
If  both  are  true,  our  parting  will  be  final ;  but  if  it  should  prove 
thai  the  same  meaning  is  hid  under  different  words,  we  shall  yet 
stand  togethei,  Pawnee,  before  the  face  of  your  Wahcondah, 
who  will  then  be  no  other  than  my  God. 

13.  "There  is  much  to  be  said  in  favor  of  both  religions,  for 
each  seems  suited  to  its  own  people,  and  no  doubt  it  was  so  in- 
tended. I  fear  I  have  not  altogether  followed  the  gifts  of  my 
color,  inasmuch  as  I  find  it  a  little  painful  to  give  up  forever  the 
use  of  the  rifle,  and  the  comfoi'ts  of  the  chase.  But  then  the 
fault  has  been  my  own,  seeing  that  it  could  not  have  been  His. 
Ay,  Hector,"  he  continued,  leaning  forward  a  little,  and  feeling 
for  the  ears  of  the  hound,  "  our  parting  has  come  at  last,  dog, 
and  it  will  be  a  long  hunt.  You  have  been  an  honest,  and  a 
bold,  and  a  faithful  hound.  Pawnee,  you  can  not  slay  the  pup 
on  my  grave,  for  where  a  Christian  dog  falls  there  lie  lies  for- 
ever ;  but  you  can  be  kind  to  him  after  I  am  gone,  for  the  love 
you  bear  his  master." 

14.  "The  words  of  my  father  are  in  my  ears,"  returned  the 
young  partisan,  making  a  grave  and  respectful  gesture  of  assent. 
"  Do  you  hear  what  the  chief  has  promised,  dog  ?"  demanded 
the  trapper,  making  an  effort  to  attract  the  notice  of  the  insen- 
sible efligy  of  his  hound.  Receiving  no  answering  look,  nor 
hearing  any  friendly  whine,  the  old  man  felt  for  the  mouth,  and 
endeavored  to  f5rce  his  hand  between  the  cold  lips.  The  truth 
then  flashed  upon  him,  although  he  was  far  from  perceiving  the 
whole  extent  of  the  deception.  Falling  back  in  his  seat,  he  hung 
his  head,  like  one  who  felt  a  severe  and  unexpected  shock. 
Profiting  by  this  momentary  forgetfulness,  two  young  Indiana 
removed  the  skin  wifh  the  same  delicacy  of  feeling  that  had  in- 
duced them  to  attempt  the  pious  fraud. 


119.  Death  of  the  Old  Trapper — concluded. 

**  fTlHE  dog  is  dead,"  muttered  the  trapper,  after  a  pause  of 

-L   many  minutes ;  "  a  hound  has  his  time  as  well  as  a  man ; 

and  well  has  he  filled  1  is  days!     "Captain,"  he  added,  making 

24 


370  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

an  effort  to  wave  his  hand  for  Middlcton,  "  I  am  glad  you  have 
cojiie;  for  though  kind,  and  well  meaning  according  to  the  gifts 
of  their  color,  these  Indians  are  not  the  men  to  lay  the  head  of 
a  white  man  in  liis  grave,  I  have  been  thinking,  too,  of  this 
dog  at  my  feet :  it  wMll  not  do  to  set  forth  the  opinion  that  a 
Christian  can  expect  to  meet  his  hound  again;  still  there  can  be 
little  harm  in  placing  what  is  left  of  so  faithful  a  servant  nigh 
the  bones  of  his  master."  "  It  shall  be  as  you  desire."  "  I'm 
glad  you  think  wifli  me  in  this  matter.  In  order,  then,  to  save 
hibor,  lay  the  pup  at  my  feet ;  or,  for  that  matter,  put  him  side 
by  side.  A  hunter  need  never  be  ashamed  to  be  found  in  com- 
pany with  his  dog !"     "  I  charge  myself  with  your  wish." 

2.  The  old  man  made  a  long,  and  apparently  a  musing  pause. 
At  times  he  raised  his  eyes  wistfully,  as  if  he  would  again  ad- 
dress Middleton,  but  some  innate  feeling  appeared  alway  to  sup- 
press his  words.  The  other,  who  observed  his  hesitation,  in- 
quired in  a  way  most  likely  to  encourage  him  to  proceed, 
whether  there  was  aught  else  that  he  could  wish  to  have  done. 
"I  am  without  kith  or  kin  in  the  wide  world!"  the  trapper  an- 
swered :  "  when  I  am  gone  there  will  be  an  end  of  my  race. 
Wn  have  never  been  chiefs ;  but  honest,  and  useful  in  our  way, 
I  hope  it  can  not  be  denied  we  have  alway  proved  ourselves.  ^Jy 
father  lies  buried  near  the  sea,  and  the  bones  of  his  son  will 
whiten  on  the  prairies."  "Name  the  spot,  and  your  remains 
shall  be  placed  by  the  side  of  your  father,"  interrupted  Middle- 
ton. 

3.  "  Not  so,  not  so,  Captain.  Let  me  sleep  where  I  have  lived 
— ;-bey6nd  the  din  of  the  settlements !  Still  I  see  no  need  why 
the  grave  of  an  honest  man  should  be  hid,  like  a  red-skin  in  his 
ambnshment.  I  paid  a  man  in  the  settlements  to  make  and  put 
a  graven  stone  at  the  head  of  my  father's  resting-place.  It  was 
of  the  value  of  twelve  beaver-skins,  and  cunningly  and  curiously 
was  it  carved  !  Then  it  told  to  all  comers  that  the  body  of  such 
a  Christian  lay  bcneafh ;  and  it  spoke  of  his  manner  of  life,  of 

,  his  years,  and  of  his  honesty.  When  we  had  done  wifh  the 
Frcnchers,  in  the  old  war,  I  made  a  journey  to  the  spot,  in  order 
to  see  that  all  was  rightly  peiformed,  and  glad  1  am  to  say,  the 
workman  had  not  forgotten  his  faith." 

4.  "And  such  ii  stone  you  would  have  at  your  grave?"     "II 


DKA'IH  OF  THE    OLD  TRAPPER.  371 

no,  no,  1  have  no  son  but  Plard-IIcart,  and  it  is  little  that  an  In- 
dian knows  of  white  fashions  and  usages.  Besides,  I  am  his 
debtor  already,  seeing  it  is  so  little  I  have  done  since  I  have 
lived  in  his  tribe.  The  rifle  niiglit  bring  the  value  of  such  a 
thing — but  then  T  know  it  will  give  the  boy  pleasure  to  hang 
the  piece  in  his  hall,  for  many  is  the  deer  and  the  bird  that  he 
has  seen  it  destroy.  No,  no,  the  gun  must  be  sent  to  him  whose 
name  is  graven  on  the  stock !" 

5.  "  But  there  is  one  who  would  gladly  prove  his  affection  in 
the  way  you  wish ;  he  wlio  owes  you  not  only  his  own  deliver- 
ance from  so  many  dangers,  but  who  inherits  a  heavy  debt  of 
graticude  from  his  ancestors.  The  stone  shall  be  put  at  the  head 
of  your  grave."  The  old  man  extended  his  emac'ated  hand,  and 
gave  the  other  a  squeeze  of  thanks.  "  I  thought  you  might  be 
willing  to  do  it,  but  I  was  backward  in  asking  the  favor,"  he 
said,  "seeing  that  you  are  not  of  my  kin.  Put  no  boastful 
words  on  the  same,  but  just  the  name,  the  age,  and  the  time  of 
tho  death,  wifh  something  from  the  holy  book;  no  more,  no 
more.  My  name  will  then  not  be  altogether  lost  on  'arth;  I 
need  no  more." 

o.  Middleton  intimated  his  assent,  and  then  followed  a  pause 
that  was  only  interrupted  by  distant  and  broken  sentences  from 
the  dying  man.  He  appeared  now  to  have  closed  his  accounts 
with  the  world,  and  to  await  merely  for  the  final  summons  to 
quit  it.  Middicton  and  Uard-IIeart  placed  themselves  on  the 
opposite  sides  of  his  seat,  and  watched  with  melancholy  solici- 
tude the  variations  of  his  countenance.  For  two  hours  there 
was  no  very  sensible  alteration.  The  expression  of  his  faded 
and  time-worn  features  was  that  of  a  calm  and  dignified  repose. 
From  time  to  time  he  spoke,  uttering  some  brief  sentence  in  the 
way  of  advice,  or  asking  some  simple  questions  concerning  those 
in  whoii.e  fortunes  he  still  took  a  friendly  interest.  During  the 
whole  of  that  solemn  and  anxious  period,  each  individual  of  the 
tribe  kept  his  place,  in  the  most  self-restrained  patience.  When 
the  old  man  spoke,  all  bent  their  heads  to  listen ;  and  when  his 
words  were  uttered,  they  seemed  to  ponder  on  their  wisdom  and 
usefulness. 

7.  As  the  flame  drew  nigher  to  th^  socket  his  voice  was 
bnshed,  and  there  were  moments  when  his  att  ndants  doubted 


S72  NATIONAL    FIFrfl    READER. 

whether  he  still  belonged  to  the  living.  Mitldleton,  ^vho  watched 
each  wavering  expression  of  his  weather-beaten  visage  with  the 
interest  of  a  keen  observer  of  human  nature,  softened  by  tho 
tenderness  of  pci-sonal  regard,  fancied  he  could  read  the  work- 
ings of  the  oI:l  man's  soul  in  ^\  c  strong  lineaments  of  his  coun- 
tenance. lY'rhaps  what  the  enlightened  soldier  took  for  the 
•<lrlusion  of  mistaken  opinio:i  did  actually  occur — for  wlio  has 
rctuincd  from  that  unknown  world  to  explain  by  what  forms, 
and  in  what  manner,  he  was  introduced  into  its  awful  precincts? 
Without  pretending  to  explain  what  must  ever  be  a  mystery  to 
the  quick,  we  shall  simply  relate  facts  as  they  occurred. 
J  8.  The  trapper  had  remained  nearly  motionless  for  an  hour. 

His  eyes  alone  had  occasionally  opened  and  shut.  When  opened, 
his  gaze  seemed  fastened  on  the  clouds  which  hung  around  the 
western  hori'zon,  reflecting  the  bright  colors,  and  giving  form 
and  loveliness  to  the  glorious  tints  of  an  American  sunset.  The 
hour— ^the  calm  beauty  of  the  season — the  occasion — all  con- 
spired to  fill  the  spectJitors  wifh  solemn  awe.  Suddenly,  while 
nuising  on  the  remarkable  position  in  which  he  was  placed, 
Middleton  felt  the  hand,  which  he  held,  grasp  his  own  with  in- 
credible pow(!r,  and  the  old  man,  supported  on  either  side  by 
his  fiiends,  rose  upi'ight  to  his  feet.  For  a  moment  he  looked 
about  him,  as  if  to  invite  all  in  his  presence  to  listen  (the  lingering 
remnant  of  human  frailty),  and  then,  with  a  fine  military  elevation 
of  the  head,  and  with  a  voice  that  might  be  heard  in  every  part 
of  that  numerous  assembly,  he  pronounced  the  word — "Here!" 
9.  A  movement  so  entirely  unexpected,  and  the  air  of  grand- 
eur and  humility  which  were  so  remarkably  united  in  the  mien 
of  the  trapper,  together  with  the  clear  and  uncommon  force  of 
his  utterance,  produced  a  short  period  of  confusion  in  the  Acui- 
ties of  all  present.  When  Middleton  and  IJard-IIeart,  each  of 
whom  had  involuntarily  extended  a  hand  to  support  the  form  of 
the  old  man,  turned  to  him  again,  they  found  that  the  subject  of 
their  interest  was  removed  forever  beyond  the  necessity  of  their 
care.  They  mournfully  placed  the  body  in  its  seat,  and  the 
voice  of  the  old  Indian,  who  arose  to  announce  the  termination 
of  the  scene  to  the  tribe,  seemed  a  sort  of  echo  from  that  invisi- 
ble world  to  which  the  meek  spirit  of  he  trapper  had  just  de- 
parted.    "V  valiant,  f*  just,  and  a  wise  warrior  has  gone  on  the 


DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  TRAPPER.  373 

patn  which  will  lead  him  to  the  blessed  grounds  of  his  people  I" 
he  said.  "When  the  voice  of  the  Wahcondah  called  him,  he 
was  ready  to  answer.  Go,  m}-  children;  remember  the  just 
chief  of  the  pale-faces,  and  clear  your  own  tracks  from  briers  I" 

10.  The  grave  was  made  beneafli  the  shade  of  some  noble 
oaks.  It  has  been  carefully  watched  to  the  pi'csent  hour  by  the 
Tawnees  of  the  Loup,  and  is  often  shown  to  the  traveler  and 
the  trader  as  a  spot  where  a  just  white  man  sleeps.  In  due  time 
the  stone  was  placed  at  its  head,  wifli  the  simple  inscription 
which  the  trapper  had  himself  requested.  The  only  liberty 
taken  by  Middleton  was  to  add — "May  no  wanton  hand  ever 

DISTURB  HIS   REMAINS."  JaMES   FeXNIMORK   CouI'KR. 

James  Fennimore  Cooper,  tlie  celebrated  American  novelist,  was  boni  at 
Burlington,  New  Jersey,  in  1789.  Mis  father,  JndjJie  William  CoorKu,  born  in 
Pennsylvania,  became  possessed,  in  178'.,  of  a  large  tract  of  land  near^  OtsesiO 
Lake,  in  the  estate  of  New  York,  where,  in  the  sprinj;  of  1780,  he  erected  the 
first  house  in  Cooperstown,  In  171(5  and  171)9  he  was  elected  to  represent  lliaJ 
district  in  Congress.  Here  the  novelist  chiefly  passed  liis  boyhood  to  his  thir- 
teenth year,  and  became  perfectly  conversant  with  frontier  life.  At  that  eari> 
ajre  he  entered  Vale  College,  where  he  remained  three  years,  when  he  obtained 
a  midshipman's  commission  and  entered  the  navy.  He  passed  the  six  followins, 
years  in  that  seiTice,  and  thus  became  master  of  the  second  great  field  of  his 
future  literary  career.  In  1811  he  resigned  his  commission,  married  Miss  De- 
lancey,  a  descendant  of  one  of  the  oldest  and  most  influential  families  in  Amer- 
ica, and  settled  down  to  a  home  life  in  Westchester,  near  New  York,  where  he 
resided  for  a  short  time  before  removing  to  Cooperstown.  Here  he  wrote  Iris  firsl 
book,  "Precaution."  Tliis  was  followed,  in  1821,  by  "  The  iSpy,"  one  of  the 
Dest  of  all  historical  romances.  It  was  almost  immediately  republished  in  all 
parts  of  Europe.  It  was  followed,  two  years  later,  by  '*  The  Pioneers."  "  The 
Pilot,"  the  first  of  his  sea  novels,  next  appeared.  It  is  one  of  the  most  remark- 
able novels  of  the  time,  and  everywhere  obtained  instant  and  high  applause 
In  18'2G  he  visited  F^urope,  where  his  reputation  was  already  well  established  as 
ons  of  the  greatest  writers  of  romantic  fiction  which  our  age  has  produced.  He 
pas!.ed  several  years  abroad,  and  was  warmly  welcomed  in  every  country  he 
visited.  His  literary  activity  was  not  impaired  by  his  change  of  scene,  as  sev- 
eral of  his  best  works  were  written  while  traveling.  He  returned  home  in  i8.'i:i. 
••  The  Prairie,"  from  which  the  above  touching  and  eft'ective.  scene  was  taken, 
the  fii-st  of  his  works  in  Europe,  published  in  1827,  was  one  of  the  most  successful 
of  the  novelist's  productions.  Leather-stocking  closes  his  career  in  its  pages. 
"  Pressed  upon  by  time,  he  has  ceased  to  be  the  hunter  and  the  warrior,  and  haa 
become  a  trapper  of  the  great  West.  The  sound  of  the  ax  has  driven  him  from 
iiis  beloved  forests  to  seek  a  refuge,  by  a  species  of  desperate  resignation,  on  the 
<lenuded  plains  that  stretch  to  the  Hocky  Mountains.  Here  he  passes  the  th\^ 
nl.js!!ig  years  of  his  life,  dying,  as  he  has  lived,  a  philosoj)her  of  the  vvil(lerne.ss, 
with  few  of  the  failings,  none  of  the  vices,  and  all  the  nature  and  truth  of  his 
position."  Mr  CoorEn's  writings  are,  throughout,  distinguished  l.'y  i)iu"!tv  and 
brilliancy  of  no  common  merit.  He  was  alike  remarkable  for  his  fine  foiiunauif 
lug  person,  his  manly,  resolute,  independent  nature,  and  his  noble,  generous, 
heart.    He  died  at  Cooperstown.  September  14.  1831. 


374  NATIONAL   FlVni    RPl^hEB 


TIIKV  <lroHa  no  St 
No  perisliVl  joys 


120.   The  Holy  Dkad. 

storm  that  lowers, 
's  bewail; 
They  pluck  no  thorn-clad  flowers, 
Nor  drink  of  streams  that  fail : 
There*  is  no  tear-drop  in  their  eye, 

No  change  iii)on  their  brow; 

Their  placid  bosom  heaves  no  sigh, 

Though  all  earth's  idols  bow. 

2.  Who  are  so  greatly  blest? 

From  whom  hath  sorrow  fled? 
Who  share*  such  deep,  unbroken  rest, 

W^liere  all  things  toil  ?     The  dead! 
The  holy  dead.     Why  weep  ye  so 

Above  yon  sable  bier? 
Thrice  blessed  !  they  have  done  with  woe, 

The  living  claim  the  tear. 

8.  Go  to  their  sleeping  bowers, 

Deck  their  low  couch  of  clay 
Wifli  earliest  spring's  soft  breathing  flowers; 

And  when  they  fade  away. 
Think  of  the  amaranth 'ine'  wreath, 

The  garlands  never  dim. 
And  tell  me  why  thou  fly'st  from  death, 

Or  hld'st  thy  friends  from  him. 

4.  We  dream,  but  they  awake ; 

Dread  visions  mar  our  rest ; 
Through  thorns  and  snares'  our  way  we  take, 

And  yet  we  mourn  the  blest ! 
For  spirits  round  the  Eternal  Throne 

How  vain  the  tears  we  shed ! 
They  are  the  living,  they  alone, 

Whom  thus  we  call  Uie  dead.      liiRs.  Sioournky.^ 

'There  (th&r). — 'Sliire.— •  Am  a  riitl 'fue.  rroiii  amaranth,  tui  Im- 
aginary flower  that  never  fades;  bence,  ur'-wling. — *  Snares  (kdAiz).— 
See  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  100. 


THE    POET   AND    QIS    CRITICS.  375 


121.   The  Poet  A-yd  his  Ckitics. 

TITE  poem  was  at  length  publ.shed.  Alas,  who  that  knows 
the  heart  of  an  author — of  an  aspiring  one — will  need  be 
lold  what  were  the  feelings  of  Maklura,  when  day  after  day, 
week  after  week  [>assed  on,  and  still  no  tidings  of  his  book.  To 
think  it  had  failed,  was  wormwood  to  his  soul.  "No,  that  \va^ 
impossible."  Still  the  suspense,  the  uncertainty  of  its  fate  vNere 
ins'ipportable.  At  last,  to  relieve  his  distress,  he  fastened  the 
blame  on  his  unfortunate  publisher;  though  how  he  was  in 
fault  he  knew  not.  B'ull  of  this  thought,  he  was  just  sallying 
forth  to  vent  his  spleen  on  him,  when  his  servant  announced  the 
Count  Piccini. 

2.  "  Now,"  thought  Maklura,  '*  I  shall  hear  my  fate :  and  he 
was  not  mistaken  ;  for  the  Count  was  a  kind  of  talking  gazette. 
The  poem  was  soon  introduced,  and  Piccini  rattled  on  with  all 
he  had  heard  of  it.  He  had  lately  been  piqued*  by  Maklura,  and 
cared  not  to  spare  him.  After  a  few  hollow  professions  of  re- 
gard, and  a  careless  remark  about  the  pain  it  gave  him  to  repeat 
unpleasant  things,  Piccini  proceeded  to  pour  them  out  one  upon 
another  with  ruthless  volubility.  Then,  stopping  as  if  to  take 
breath,  he  continued,  "  I  see  you  are  surprised  at  all  this ;  but 
indeed,  my  friend,  I  can  not  help  thinking  it  principjtflly  owing 
to  your  not  having  suppressed  your  name;  for  your  high  repu- 
tation, it  seems,  had  raised  such  extravagant  expectations  as  none 
but  a  first-rate  genius  could  satisfy." 

3.  " By  which,"  observed  Maldura,  "I  am  to  conclude  that 
my  work  has  failed?"  "Why,  no — not  exactly  that;  it  has  only 
not  been  praised — that  is,  I  mean  in  the  way  you  might  have 
wished.  But  do  not  be  depressed ;  there's  no  knowing  but  the 
tide  may  yet  turn  in  your  favor."  "  Then  I  suppose  the  book  is 
hardly  as  yet  known  ?"  "  I  beg  your  pardon — quite  the  con- 
trary. When  your  friend  the  Marquis  introduced  it  at  his  last 
conversazione^  every  one  present  seemed  quite  au  fail?  on  it,  at 
least  they  all  talked  as  if  they  had  read  it." 

4.  Maldura  bit  his  lips.     "  Pray,  who  were  the  company  T 

*  Piqued  (p6kt),  olFended. — ^'Con^'ersazione  (k6ri  ver  sSt  ze  i' na),  a 
iDeeting  for  couversHlion.— •  Au  fait  (6  fA'),  export ;  'rell  instructed. 


37G  NATIONAL    FIFfH    READER. 

"  Oh,  all  your  friends,  1  assure  you :  Guattani,  Martello,  Pessuti 
the  mathematician,  Alfieri,  Beniici,  the  Venetian  Castelli,  and 
the  old  Fcrrarese  Carnesecchi :  those  were  the  principal,  but 
there  were  twenty  otliers  who  had  each  something  to  sa}." 
Maldiira  could  not  but  perceive  the  malice  of  this  enumeration ; 
but  he  checked  his  rising  cholcr.  "Well,"  said  he,  "  if  I  under- 
stand you,  there  wfus  but  one  opinion  respecting  my  poem  wiQi 
all  this  company  ?" 

r».  "Oh,  by  no  moans.  Their  opinions  were  as  various  rf 
their  characters."  "  Well,  Pessuti — what  said  he  ?''  "  Why  you 
know  lie's  a  mathematician,  and  should  not  regard  him.  But 
yot,  to  do  him  justice,  he  is  a  very  nice  critic,  and  not  unskilled 
in  poetry ."  "Go  on,  Sir,  I  can  bear  it."  "Why  then,  it  was 
Pessuti's  opinion  that  the  poem  had  more  learning  than  gvinius.'* 
"Proceed,  Sir."  "Martello  denied  it  both;  but  he,  you  know, 
is  a  disa}>pointed  author.  Guattani  differed  but  little  from 
Pessuti  as  to  its  learning,  but  contended  that  you  certainly 
showed  great  invention  in  your  fable — which  was  like  nothing 
that  ever  did,  or  could  happen.     But  I  fear  I  annoy  you." 

C.  "  Go  on,  I  beg.  Sir."  "  The  next  who  spoke  was  old 
Carnesecchi,  who  confessed  that  he  had  no  doubt  he  should 
have  been  delighted  wife  the  poem,  could  he  have  taken  hold 
of  it ;  but  it  was  so  en  reyle^^  and  like  a  hundred  others,  that  it 
put  him  in  mind  of  what  is  called  a  polished  gentlenuin,  who 
talks  and  bows,  and  slips  through  a  great  crowd  without  leaving 
any  impression.  Another  person,  whose  name  1  have  I'orgotten, 
praised  the  versification,  but  objected  to  the  thoughts." 

7.  "Because  they  were  absurd?"  "Oh,  no,  for  the  opposite 
reason — because  they  had  all  been  long  ago  known  to  ho  good. 
Castelli  thought  that  a  bad  reason  ;  for  his  part,  he  said,  he  liked 
them  all  the  better  for  that — it  was  like  shakinjj  hands  wifli  an 
old  acquaintance  in  every  line.  Another  observed,  that  at  least 
*no  critical  court  could  lawfully  condemn  them,  as  they  could 
each  plead  an  alibi?  Not  an  alibi^  said  a  third,  but  a  doable ; 
so  they  should  be  burnt  for  sorceiy.     With  all  my  heart,  said  a 


'En  regie,  according  to  rule;  set;  stiff.— 'Al' i  bl,  elsewhere.  To 
plead  an  alibi  is  to  show  thai  the  accused  wj.s  iu  some  othev  plaice  when 
Ihe  criiue  wuh  3uiuutitl»(l. 


THE    POET    AND    HIS    CRITICS.  377 

fonrtl. ;  but  not  the  poor  author,  for  he  has  certainly  satisfied  ua 
that  he  is  lo  conjuror. 

S.  "  Then  Castelli — but,  'faith,  1  don't  know  how  to  proceed." 
"  You  are  over-delicate,  Sir.  Speak  cut,  I  pray  you."  "  Well, 
Benuci  finished  by  the  most  extravagant  eulogy  I  ever  heard." 
Maldura  took  breath.  "  For  he  compared  your  hero  to  the 
Apollo  Belvedere,'  your  heroine  to  the  Venus^  de  Medicis,  and 
your  subordinate  characters  to  the  Diana,'  the  Hercules,*  the 
Antin'oiis,'  and  twenty  other  celebrated  antiques ;  declared  them 
all  equally  well  wrought,  and  beautiful — and  like  them  too, 
equally  cold,  hard,  and  motionless.  In  short,  he  maintained  that 
you  were  the  boldest  and  most  original  poet  he  had  ever  known ; 
for  none  but  a  hardy  genius,  who  consulted  nobody's  taste  but 
his  own,  would  have  dared,  like  you,  to  draw  his  animal  life 
from  a  statue  gallery,  and  his  vegetable  from  a  hortus  siccus."^ 

9.  Maldura's  heart  stitfened  within  him,  but  his  pride  con- 
trolled him,  and  he  masked  his  thoughts  with  something  like 
composure.  Yet  he  dared  not  trust  himself  to  speak,  but  stood 
looking  at  Piccini,  as  if  waiting  for  him  to  go  on.  "  I  believe 
that's  all,"  said  the  count,  carelessly  twirling  his  hat,  and  rising 
to  take  leave.  Maldura  roused  himself,  and,  making  an  effort, 
said,  "  No,  Sir,  there  is  one  person  whom  you  have  only  named 
— Alfieri;  what  did  he  say  ?"  "Nothing!"  Piccini  pronounced 
this  word  with  a  graver  tone  than  usual :  it  was  his  fiercest  bolt, 
and  he  knew  that  a  show  of  feeling  would  send  it  home.  Then, 
after  pausing  a  moment,  he  hurried  out  of  the  room. 

Washington  Allston. 

Washington  Allston,  universally  acknowledged  as  of  the  first  eminence 
among  American  painlt-rs,  was  born  ni  Cijarleslon,  South  Carolina,  iV'oveniber 

*  Apollo  Belvedere,  a  statue  of  the  Greek  divinity  Apollo.  In  this 
the  god  is  represented  with  commanding  but  serene  majesty  ;  sublime 
intellect  and  physical  beauty  are  combined  in  the  most  wonderful  man- 
ner. It  was  discovered  in  1503  at  Rettuno,  and  is  now  in  the  Vatican 
at  Rome. — '  Venus  de  Medicis,  a  statue  admired  as  the  perfection  of  fe- 
male beauty.  It  was  discovered  in  the  villa  of  Adrian,  at  Tivoli,  the 
favorite  country-seat  of  the  ancient  Romans,  and  carried  to  Florence  in 
1605. — 'Diana,  see  p.  337,  note  3. — '•Hercules,  the  most  celebrated  of 
all  the  heroes  of  antiquity. — *  Axtinous  (an  t!n'  o  us),  a  beautiful  youth, 
celebrated  as  the  companion  and  favorite  of  Adrian,  the  Roman  emperor, 
drowned  in  132. — *  tlortus  siccus,  a  dry  or  unproductive  garden 


378  NATIONAL   FIFTH    READER. 

5th,  1779.  He  received  his  early  education  at  the  school  of  Mr.  RonEUT  Rogerb, 
in  Newport,  RUwle  Inland,  entered  Harvard  College  in  i79(),  and  received  his 
baccalaureate  degree  in  1800.  hnnietl lately  after  leaving  college  he  chose  his 
vocation,  and  as  our  country  at  that  time  furnished  few  facilities  for  the  study  ol 
the  rine  arts,  he  embarked  for  London  in  IbOi,  and  became  a  student  of  the 
Royal  Academy,  of  which  Benjamin  West,  the  distinguished  American  painter, 
was  then  president.  Here  he  remained  three  years,  and  then,  after  a  sojoiun  at 
Paris,  went  to  Rome,  where  he  resided  four  years,  and  became  the  intimate  as- 
sociate of  CoLEitiiMiE.  hi  1809  he  returned  to  America  for  a  j)eriod  of  two  years, 
which  he  piu^sed  in  Boston,  where  he  married  the  sioter  of  the  Rev.  Ur.  (Jiian- 
NiNO.  In  IHll  he  went  a  second  time  to  England,  where  his  reputation  as  a 
painter  wa.s  now  well  established.  He  received  by  his  picture  of  the  "  L'ead 
Man  raised  by  the  Boueis  of  Klisha"  a  prize  of  two  hundred  guineas,  at  the  Brit- 
ish Institute,  where  the  (irst  artists  in  the  world  were  his  comr)etitors.  Here  he 
published  a  small  volume,  "  The  Sylphs  of  the  Seasons,  and  other  Poems," 
which  was  reprinted  in  Boston  the  same  year.  This  year  his  wife  died,  an  event 
which  affected  him  deeply.  He  returue.l  home  in  1818,  and  resumed  his  resi- 
dence at  lioston.  In  l8;io  he  married  a  sister  of  Richard  H.  Dana,  and  removed 
to  Cambridgeport.  His  lectures  on  art  were  connnenced  about  the  same  period, 
four  only  of  which  were  completed,  and  these  did  not  ap|>ear  until  alter  his  de- 
cease. Besides  his  lectiir»^s,  his  poems,  and  many  short  pieces  which  have  since 
been  given  to  the  public,  Mr.  Allston  was  the  aiithor  of  "  Monaldi,"  a  story  of 
extraordinary  )iower  and  interest,  from  which  the  above  extract  is  taken.  He 
died  very  suddenly,  on  tiie  ni^lit  of  the  8th  of  July,  I84.{,  leaving  but  one  paint- 
ing incomplete,  *'  Belshazzar's  Feast,  or  the  Handwriting  on  the  Wall,"  ujwu 
wliich  he  had  been  engaged  at  intervals  lor  nearly  twenty  years. 


122.   To  A  Skylakk. 

1.  TJATL  to  thee,  bllflie  spirit! — bird  thou  never  wert, — 
-Li  Tliat  from  heaven,  or  near  it,  pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

2.  Higher  still,  and  higher,  from  the  earth  thou  springest 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire ;  the  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever,  singest 

3.  In  the  golden  lightening  of  the  sunken  sim. 

O'er  which  clouds  are  brightening,  tltou  dost  float  and  run, 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 

4.  The  pale  purple  even  melts  around  thy  flight : 
Like  a  star  of  heaven,  in  the  bioad  daylight 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight. 

5.  Keen  are  the  arrows  of  that  silver  sphere. 

Whose  inteiis(!  lamp  narrows  in  the  white  dawn  c.ear, 
Until  we  hard  I V  see,  wo  feel  that  it  is  there. 


TO    A    SKYLARK.  379 

6.  All  tho  earth  and  air  wifli  thy  voice  is  lond, 
As,  when  night  is  bare,  from  one  lonely  cloud 

The  moon  rains  out  her  he;in.  i,  and  heaven  is  overflow'd. 

7.  What  thou  art  we  know  not :  what  is  most  like  thee  ? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not  drops  so  bright  tc  see, 
As  rrom  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody. 

8.  Like  a  poet  hidden  in  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden,  till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not. 

9.  Like  a  high-born  maiden  in  a  palace  tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden  soul  in  secret  hour 

WiQi  ujusic  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  her  bower. 

10.  Like  a  glow-worm  golden  in  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden  its  aerial  hue 

Among  the  flowers  and  grass,  which  screen  it  from  the  v^ew, 

11.  Like  a  rose  embower'd  in  its  own  green  leaves. 
By  warm  winds  deflowerVl,  till  the  scent  it  gives 

Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy-winged  thieves. 

12.  Sound  of  vernal  showers  on  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awaken'd  floweis,  all  that  ever  was 

.loyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth  suipass. 

13.  Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird,  what  sweet  thoughts  are  thine: 
I  have  never  heard  praise  of  love  or  wine 

That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 

14.  Chorus  hymene'al,  or  triumphal  chant, 

AJatchM  with  thine  would  be  all  but  an  empty  vaunt — 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want. 

15.  What  objects  are  the  fountains  of  thy  happy  strain? 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains  ?    what  shapes  of  sk\ 

or  plain  ? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind  ?  what  ignorance  of  pain  ? 

1 0.  With  thy  clear  keen  joyance  languor  can  not  be : 
Shadow  of  annoyance  never  came  near  thee  : 
riiou  lovest ;  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety, 


380  NATIONAL    FUTH    RP:Ar)KR. 

17.  Waking  or  asleep,  thou  of  death  imist  rlecm 
Things  more  true  and  deep  tlian  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream  1 

18.  We  look  before  and  after,  and  pine  for  what  is  not: 
Our  sinccrest  laughter  wifh  some  pain  is  fraught : 

Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest  thought 

1 0.  Yet  if  we  could  scorn  hate,  and  pride,  and  fear ; 
If  we  were  things  born  not  to  shed  a  tear, 
1  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  could  come  near. 

20.  Better  than  all  measures  of  delight  and  sound, 
Better  than  all  treasures  that  in  books  are  found. 
Thy  skill  to  /)oet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  ground ! 

21.  Teach  me  half  the  gladness  that  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness  from  my  lips  would  flow. 
The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I  am  listening  now. 

SilELLHY. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley,  a  poet  of  admirable  genius,  the  son  and  heir  ot  a 
wealtiiy  baronet  in  Sussex,  Knjilaiid,  was  born  in  that  county  in  IT'j-i.  lie  was 
educated  tirst  at  VAou,  and  afterward  at  Oxlbnl,  wiiere  he  studieil  hard,  but  ir- 
regularly ;  incessantly  speculated,  thoutilil,  and  read  ;  became  entan}ileil  in 
metaphysical  di/hculties,  and,  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  published,  with  a  tlirect 
appeal  to  the  heads  of  the  colleges,  a  pamphlet  entitle*!  '"['he  Necessity  of 
Atheism."  He  was  immediately  expelleil ;  and  his  friends  being  disgusted  with 
him,  he  was  cast  on  the  world  a  prey  to  the  undisciplined  anior  of  youlh  and 
passion.  At  the  age  ol  eighteen  he  printed  his  poem  of  "  Queen  Mab,"  in 
which  singular  |X)elic  beauties  are  interspersed  with  many  speculative  al»surdi- 
ties.  Shortly  after  this  he  married  a  young  woman  of  humble  station  in  lii'e, 
which  com|)leted  his  alienation  from  his  family.  After  a  tour  on  the  contineiJt, 
during  which  hi  visited  some  of  the  most  magnificent  scenes  of  Switzerland,  he 
settled  near  Windsor,  Forest,  where  he  compased  his  poem,  "  Alastor,  or  the 
Spirit  of  Solitude,"  which  contains  descriptive  passages  excelled  by  none  of  his 
subsequent  works.  His  domestic  unha|)|)iness  soon  alYer  imluced  him  to  sepa- 
rate from  his  wife,  and  the  unhappy  woman  destroyed  herself.  This  event  sub- 
jected him  to  nuich  misreiiresenlation,  and  by  a  decree  of  chancery  he  was  de- 
prived of  the  guardianship  of  his  two  children,  on  the  ground  of  innnorality  and 
atheism.  Not  fong  after  his  wife's  death  he  married  the  daughter  of  Godwin, 
authoress  of  "  Frankenstein,"  and  other  novels.  They  resided  for  a  few  months 
in  iUickinghamshire,  where  they  made  themselves  beloveil  by  their  charity  lor 
the  poor.  Here  he  composed  the  '*  Revolt  of  Islam,"  a  poem  still  more  ener- 
getic than  "  Alastor."  In  the  spring  of  1818  he  and  his  fanjily  removetl  to 
Italy,  where  they  at  lejigth  settled  themselves  at  Pisa.  In  that  country,  with 
health  already  failing,  Suklley  produced  some  of  his  principal  works,  in  a  pe- 
riod of  four  years.  In  Juiy,  IH-jj,  when  he  liad  not  (|Uite  compiettnl  his  'JMh 
year,  he  was  drowned  in  a  storm  which  he  encountered  in  his  yacht  on  the 
Gulf  of  S'>ezzia     lu  accordance  with  his  own  desire,  his  *hxIv  whs  biirn*«d.  uii 


NOKVAL.  3b  1 

der  the  direction  of  Lord  Byron  and  other  friends  and  the  aslies  were  carried 
to  Rome  and  deposited  in  tiie  Protestant  buriai-gromid,  near  those  of  a  child  lie 
had  lost  in  tliat  city.  A  complete  edition  of  "tShelley's  Poetical  Works,"  with 
notes  by  his  widow,  has  been  published.  The  above  ode  to  the  Skylark  bears, 
perhaps,  as  pure  a  jwetical  stamp  as  any  of  his  productions.  It  was  written  aa 
his  mind  prompted,  listening  to  tlie  caroling  of  tlie  bird  aloft  in  the  eizure  sky  of 
Italy. 


123.    JSTOEVAL. 


Enter  first  Glenalvon  ;  and  soon  after,  Norval.     The  latter 
seems  looking  off  at  some  distant  object. 

Glenalvon.  His  port  I  love;  he's  in  a  proper  mood 
To  chide  the  thunder,  if  at  him  it  roar'd.     \^Aside. 
[Aloud ^  Has  Norval  seen  the  troops  ? 

Norval,  The  setting  sun 

Wifh  yellow  radiance  lighten'd  all  the  vale, 
And  as  the  warriors  moved,  each  polish'd  helm, 
Corslet,  or  spear,  glanced  back  his  gilded  beams. 
The  hill  they  climbed,  and,  halting  at  its  top, 
Of  more  than  mortal  size,  towering  they  seem'd 
A  host  angelic,  clad  in  burning  arms. 

Glen.  Thou  talk'st  it  well ;  no  leader  of  our  host 
In  sounds  more  lofty  talks  of  glorious  war. 

Norv.  If  I  should  e'er  acquire  a  leader's  name, 
My  speech  will  be  less  ardent.     Novelty 
Now  prompts  my  tongue,  and  youthful  admiration 
Vents  itself  freely ;  since  no  part  is  mine 
Of  praise  pertaining  to  the  great  in  arms. 

Glen.  You  wrong  yourself,  brave  sir;  your  martial  deeia 
Have  rank'd  you  with  the  great.     But  mark  me,  Norval, 
Lord  Randolph's  favor  now  exalts  your  youth 
Above  his  veterans  of  famous  service. 
Let  me,  who  know  these  soldiers,  counsel  you. 
Give  them  all  honor :  seem  not  to  command, 
Else  they  will  hardly  brook  your  late-sprung  power, 
Which  nor  alliance  props  nor  birth  adorns. 

Norv.  Sir,  I  have  been  accustoui'd,  all  my  days, 
To  hear  and  speak  the  plaixi  and  simple  truth ; 
And  though  I  have  been  tt>lil  thai  there  are  men 


SS'2  NATIONAL    FlhTH    KEAJ>EK. 

Who  borrow  fricnflsliip's  tong-nc  to  speak  tlieir  scorn, 
Yet  in  sncli  language  1  am  little  skilTd; 
Tliercfoie  I  thank  Glenalvon  for  his  counsel, 
Although  it  sonmied  harshly.     Why  remind 
Me  of  my  birth  obscure?     Why  slur  my  power 
VVifli  such  contemptuous  terms  ? 

Gle7i.  I  did  not  mean 

To  gall  your  pride,  which  now  I  see  is  great. 

JVorv.  My  pride! 

Glen.  Suppress  it,  as  you  wish  to  prosper  • 

Your  pride's  excessive.     Yet,  for  Randolph's  sake, 
I  will  not  leave  you  to  its  rash  direction. 
If  thus  you  swell,  and  frown  at  high-born  men, 
Will  high-born  men  endure  a  shepherd's  scorn  ? 

Norv.  A  shepherd's  scorn  !  \^Crosses  left. 

Glen.  \^Ri(jhti\  Why  yes,  if  you  presume 

To  bend  on  soldiers  those  disdainful  eyes 
As  if  you  took  the  measure  of  their  minds, 
And  said  in  secret.  You're  no  match  for  me, 
What  will  become  of  you  ? 

Norv.  Hast  thou  no  fears  for  thy  presumptuous  self? 

Glen.  Ha !  dost  thou  threaten  me  ? 

Norv.  Didst  thou  not  heai  ? 

Glen.  Unwillingly  I  did ;  a  nobler  foe 
Had  not  been  question'd  thus ;  but  such  as  thou — 

Norv.  Whom  dost  thou  think  me  ? 

Glen.  Norval. 

Norv.  So  I  am  ; 

And  who  is  Norval  in  Glenalvon's  eyes  ? 

Glen.  A  peasant's  son,  a  wandering  beggar  boy ; 
At  best  no  more,  even  if  he  speaks  the  truth. 

Norv.  False  as  thou  art,  dost  thou  suspect  my  truth  ? 

Glen.  Thy  truth  !  thou'rt  all  a  lie ;  and  basely  false 
Is  the  vain-glorious  tale  thou  told'st  to  Randolph. 

Norv.  If  I  were  chain'd,  unarm'd,  or  bedrid  old, 
Perhaps  I  should  revile ;  but,  as  I  am, 
I  have  no  tongue  to  rail.     The  humble  Norval 
Is  of  a  race  who  strive  not  but  wifti  deeds.     [^Crosses  R, 
Did  I  not  fear  to  freeze  thy  shallow  valor. 


NORVAL  383 

And  make  thee  sink  too  soon  beneafh  my  sword, 
I'd  tell  thee — what  thou  art.     I  know  thee  well. 

Glen.  [L.]  Dost  thou  not  know  Glenalvon  born  to  command 
Ten  thousand  slaves  like  thee  ? 

Now,  Villain,  no  more ! 

Draw,  and  defend  thv  life.     I  did  design 
1  o  have  defied  thee  in  another  cause ; 
l>ut  heaven  accelerates  its  vengeance  c  n  thee. 
Now  for  my  own  and  Lady  Randolph's  wrSngs ! 

[Both  draw  tkeir  swords. 

Enter  Lord  Randolph,  R. 

Lord  Randolph,  Hold !   I  command  you  both  !  the  man  that 
stirs 
Makes  me  his  foe. 

Norv.  Another  voice  than  thine 
That  threat  had  vainly  sounded,  noble  Randolph. 

Glen.  Hear  him,  my  lord ;  he's  wondrous  condescending  I 
Mark  the  humility  of  shepherd  Norval ! 

Norv.  Now  you  may  scoff  in  safety.  [Both  sheathe  their  swoids 

Lord  R.  [R.'\  Speak  not  thus, 

Taunting  each  other,  but  unfold  to  rae 
The  cause  of  quarrel ;  then  I  judge  betwixt  you. 

Norv.  Nay,  my  good  lord,  though  I  revere  you  much, 
My  cause  I  plead  not,  nor  demand  your  judgment. 
I  blush  to  speak ;  and  will  not,  can  not  speak 
The  opprobrious  words  that  I  from  him  have  borne. 
To  the  liege  lord  of  my  dear  native  land 
I  owe  a  subject's  homage ;  but  even  him 
And  his  high  arbitration  I'd  reject! 
Within  ray  bosom  reigns  another  lord — 
Honor !  sole  judge  and  umpire  of  itself. 
If  my  free  speech  offend  you,  noble  Randolph, 
Itevoke  your  favors,  and  let  Norval  go 
Hence  as  he  came ;  alone — but  not  dishonor'd ! 

Lord  R.  Thus  far  I'll  mediate  wifli  impartial  voice: 
The  ancient  foe  of  Caledonia's  land 
Now  waves  his  banner  o'er  her  frighted  fields ; 
Suspend  your  purpose  till  your  country's  arms 


384  NATIONAL    FiFni    KEADEli. 

Repel  the  bold  invader ;  then  decide 
The  private  quaiTcl. 

Qlen.  I  agree  to  this. 

Korv.  And  I.  [Lord  R.  retires. 

Glen.  Norval, 

Let  not  our  variance  mar  the  social  hour, 
Nor  v^rong  the  hospitality  of  Randolph. 
Nor  frowning  anger,  nor  yet  wrinkled  hate, 
Shall  stain  my  countenance.     Smooth  thou  thy  brow; 
Nor  let  our  strife  disturb  the  gentle  dame. 

Now,  Think  not  so  lightly,  sir,  of  my  resentment ; 
When  we  contend  again,  our  strife  is  mortal. 

[Exeunt  Glen.,  Norv. 

Home. 

John  Home,  author  of  "  Douglas"  and  various  other  tragedies,  was  born  at 
Leitli,  fcicotland,  in  1722.  He  entered  the  Cliurch,  and  succeeded  Blair,  autlioi 
of  "  The  Grave,"  as  minister  of  Athelstaneford.  After  writing  "  Douglas,"  so 
violent  a  storm  was  raised  by  the  fact  that  a  Presbyterian  minister  had  written 
a  play,  that  he  was  obliged  to  resign  his  living.  Lord  Bute  rewarded  him  with 
the  sinecure  office  of  conservator  of  Scots  privileges  at  Campvere,  and  on  the 
accession  of  George  HI.,  in  17(50,  he  secured  a  pension  for  the  jxiet  of  jC30U  i»er 
annum.  With  an  income  of  some  X60(),  and  the  frieiulship  of  David  Hume, 
BuiiR,  Robertson,  euid  other  distinguished  men.  Home's  life  was  passed  in  lmj>- 
py  tranquillity.    He  died  m  1808,  aged  eighty-six. 


124.   Bernardo  del  Carpio.^ 


THE  warrior  bowM  his  crested  head,  and  tamed  his  heart  of  fire, 
And  sued  the  haughty  king  to  free  his  long-imprison'd  sire ; 

*  Bernardo  del  Carpio,  a  celebrated  Spanish  champion,  after  many 
ineffectual  efforts  to  procure  the  release  of  his  father,  Count  Saldana, 
whom  King  Alphonso,  of  Asturias,  had  long  retained  in  prison,  at  last 
took  up  arms  in  despair.  He  maintained  so  destructive  a  war  that  the 
king's  subjects  united  in  demanding  Saldana' s  release.  Alphonso 
therefore  offered  Bernardo  the  person  of  his  father  in  exchange  for  the 
castle  of  Carpio.  Bernardo  immediately  gave  up  his  stron^fhold  with 
all  his  captives  ;  and  rode  forth  witli  the  king  to  meet  his  father,  who 
he  was  assured  was  on  his  way  from  prison.  The  remainder  of  the 
story  is  related  in  the  ballad.  Hut  little  's  known  of  Bernardo's  his- 
tory after  this  evt-nt 


BEENAUDO   L»EL    CARPIO.  JoO 

**  I  bring  thee  here  my  fortress-keys,  I  bring  my  captive  train, 
I  pledge  thee  faith,  my  liege,  my  lord ! — Oh !  break  my  father's 
chain !" 

II. 
"  Rise,  rise     even  now  thy  father  comes,  a  ransom'd  man,  this  day 
Mount  thy  good  horse ;  and  thou  and  I  will  meet  him  on  his  way." 
Then  lightly  rose  that  loyal  son,  and  bounded  on  his  steed. 
And  urged,  as  if  wifli  lance  in  rest,  the  charger's  foamy  speed. 

III. 
And  lo !  from  far,  as  on  they  press'd,  there  came  a  glittering 

band, 
Wifli  one  that  'midst  them  stately  rode,  as  a  leader  in  the  land : 
"  Now  haste,  Bernardo,  haste !  for  there,  in  very  truth,  is  he. 
The  father  whom  thy  faithful  heart  hath  yearn'd  so  long  to  see." 

IV. 

His  dark  eye  flash'd,  his  proud  breast  heaved,  his  cheek's  hue 
came  and  went : 

He  reach'd  that  gray-hair'd  chieftain's  side,  and  there,  dismount- 
ing, bent ; 

A  lowly  knee  to  earth  he  bent,  his  father's  hand  he  took — 

What  was  there  in  its  touch  that  all  his  fiery  spirit  shook  ? 

V. 

That  hand  was  cold — a  frozen  thing,-v  -it  dropp'd  from  his  like 

lead! 
He  look'd  up  to  the  face  above, — the  face  was  of  the  dead ! 
A  plume  waved  o'er  the  noble  brow, — the  brow  was  fix'd  and 

white : 
He  met,  at  last,  his  father's  eyes, — but  in  them  was  no  sight ! 

VI. 

Up  from  the  ground  he  sprang  and  gazed ; — but  who  could  paint 

that  gaze  ? 
They  hush'd  their  very  hearts,  that  saw  its  horror  and  amaze : — 
They  might  have  chain'd  him,  as  before  that  stony  form  he 

stood ; 
For  the  power  was  stricken  from  his  arm,  and  ftora  his  lip  the 

blood. 

17 


386  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READKR. 

VII. 

"  Father  !"  at  length  he  murmur'd  low,  and  wept  like  childhood 

then : 
Talk  not  of  grief  till  thou  hast  seen  the  tears  of  warlike  men ! 
flo  thought  on  all  his  gl5rious  hopes,  and  all  his  young  renown, — 
lie  flung  his  falchion^  from  his  side,  and  in  the  dust  sat  down. 

VIII. 

Then  covering  wifli  his  steel-gloved  hands  his  darkly  mournful 

brow, 
"  No  more,  there  is  no  more,"  he  said, "  to  lift  the  sword  for,  now ; 
My  king  is  false — my  hope  betray'd !    My  father — Oh !  the  worth. 
The  glory,  and  the  loveliness,  are  pass'd  away  from  earth ! 

IX. 

"  I  thought  to  stand  where  banners  waved,  my  sire,  beside  thee,  y6t ! 
I  would  that  there  our  kindred  blood  on  Spain's  free  soil  had  m^:t ! 
Thou  wouldst  have  known  my  spirit,  then ; — for  thee  my  fi'    's 

were  won ; 
And  thou  hast  perish'd  in  thy  chains,  as  though  thou  hadst   7^0 

son!" 

X. 

Then,  starting  from  the  ground  once  more,  he  seized  the  mo  «- 

arch's  rein. 
Amidst  the  pale  and  wilder'd  looks  of  all  the  courtier  traiii ; 
And,  wifli  a  fierce,  o'ermastering  grasp,  the  rearing  war-horoc  1 /'., 
And  sternly  set  them  face  to  face — the  king  before  the  dc;td  : 

XI. 

"  Came  I  not  forth,  upon  thy  pledge,  my  father's  hand  to  kiss  ? 
Be  still,  and  gaze  thou  on,  false  king !  and  tell  me,  what  i^  this  ? 
The  voice,  the  glance,  the  heart  I  sought, — give  answer,  where 

are  they  ? 
}i'  thou  wouldst  clear  thy  perjured  soul,  send  life  through  thi«4 

col<l  clay ! 

XII. 

"  Into  these  glassy  eyes  put  light ; — be  still !  keep  cowl  thine 

ire ! — 
Bid  thetjc  white  lips  a  blessing  speak, — this  earth  is  not  mj  sire  : 

•  Falchion  (far  cliuu) 


SELKCT    PASSAGES    IN    VERSE.  387 

Give  me  back  him  for  whom  I  strove,  for  whom  my  blood  was 

shed ! — 
TJiou  canst  not  ? — and  a  king  1 — his  dust  be  mountains  or  thy 

head !" 

xm. 

lie  loosed  the  steed, — his  slack  hand  fell ; — upon  the  silent  face 
11"  cast  one  long,  deep,  troubled  look,  then  turn'd  from  that  sai' 

place : 
His  hope  was  crush'd,  his  after  fate  untold  m  martial  strain  :— 
His  banner  led  the  spears  no  more,  amidst  the  hills  of  Spain. 

Mrs.  Hemans. 

Mrs.  Hemans  (Felicia  Dorothea  Browne),  the  daughter  of  a  Liverpool  mer- 
chant, was  bom  in  that  town  on  the  25th  of  September,  1793.  Her  father,  soon 
after  experiencing  some  reverses,  removed  with  liis  family  to  Wales,  and  ther? 
the  young  poetess  imbibed  that  love  of  nature  which  is  displayed  in  all  hej 
works.  She  wrote  verses  from  her  childhood,  and  published  a  poetical  volum< 
in  her  fourteenth  year.  Her  second  volume,  "The  Domestic  Affections,' 
which  appeared  in  1812,  established  her  poetical  reputation.  In  the  same  yea; 
she  married  Captaip  Hemans,  who,  after  some  years,  went  to  reside  on  the  Con 
tinent,  his  wife  remaining  at  home  with  her  five  sons.  She  became  more  an<* 
more  devoted  to  study  and  composition.  In  1819  she  won  a  prize  of  £50,  offeree^ 
by  some  patriotic  Scots  for  the  best  poem  on  Sir  William  Wallace,  and  in 
June,  1821,  she  obtamed  the  prize  awarded  by  the  Royal  Society  of  Literature 
lor  the  best  poem  on  the  subject  of  Dartmoor.  She  succeeded  well  in  narrative 
and  dramatic  poetry,  though  the  character  of  her  genius  was  decidedly  lyrical 
and  reflective.  Her  numerous  poems  are  admirable  for  purity  of  sentiment  and 
gentle  pathos ;  and  her  personal  character  was  amiable,  modest,  and  exemplary. 
Ailer  several  changes  of  residence,  she  died  in  Dublin,  on  the  16th  of  May,  1835 


125.  Select  Passages  in  Yekse. 

I. 
Patriotism. — Scott. 

Breathes  there  a  man  wifli  soul  so  dead, 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said, 

"This  is  my  own — my  native  land!" 
Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  him  burn'd 
As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turn  d, 

From  wandering  on  a  foreign  stiand  ? 
If  such  there  breathe,  go,  mark  him  well ! 
For  him  no  minstrel's  raptures  swell. 
High  though  his  titles,  proud  his  name. 
Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  cnn  vhuru — 


388  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Despite  those  titles,  power,  and  pel^ 
The  wretch,  concenter'd  all  in  self, 
Living  shall  forfeit  fair  renown. 
And,  doubly  dying,  shall  go  down 
To  the  vile  dust  from  whence  he  sprung, 
Unwept,  unhonor'd,  and  unsung. 

II. 
AMBinoN. — Byron. 
Hk  who  ascends  to  mountain-tops  shall  find 

The  loftiest  peaks  most  wrapt  in  clouds  and  snow : 
He  who  surpasses  or  subdues  mankind 

Must  look  down  on  the  hate  of  those  below. 
Though  high  above  the  sun  of  glory  glow. 

And  far  beneafli  the  earth  and  ocean  spread, 
Round  him  are  icy  rocks,  and  loudly  blow 
Contending  tempests  on  his  naked  head  ; 
And  thus  reward  the  toils  which  to  those  summits  led. 

III. 
Independence. — Thomson. 
I  CARE  not.  Fortune,  what  you  me  deny ; 

You  can  not  rob  me  of  free  Nature's  grace ; 
You  can  not  shut  the  winddws  of  the  sky. 

Through  which  Aurora*  shows  her  brightening  face ; 
You  can  not  bar  my  constant  feet  to  ti-ace 
The  woods  and  lawns,  by  living  stream,  at  eve : 

Let  health  my  nerves  and  finer  fibers  brace. 
And  I  their  toys  to  the  great  children  leave : 
Of  Fancy,  Reason,  Virtue,  naught  can  me  bereave  I 

IV. 

The  Captive's  Dreams. — Mrs.  Hemans. 
I  dream  of  all  things  free !  of  a  gallant,  gallant  bark. 
That  sweeps  through  storm  and  sea  like  an  2,rr5w  to  its  mark ; 

'  E6s,  in  Latin  Aurora,  the  goddess  of  the  morning  red.  It  is  said, 
in  mythology,  at  the  close  of  every  night  she  rose  from  the  couch  of  her 
spouse,  TiTHONUS,  and  on  a  chariot  dra  wn  by  the  swift  horses  Lampua 
and  Phagthon,  ascended  up  to  heaven  from  the  river  Oceanus,  to 
announce  the  coming  light  of  the  sun  to  gods  as  well  as  to  mortals : 
Uouce,  tlie  dawning  light :  the  morning. 


SELECT   PASSAGES    EN    VERSE.  3S9 

Of  a  stag  tliat  o'er  the  hills  goes  bounding  in  its  glee ; 
Of  a  thousand  flashing  rills, — of  all  things  glad  and  free. 
I  dream  of  some  proud  bird,  a  bright-eyed  mountain  king : 
In  my  visions  I  have  heard  the  rushing  of  his  wing. 
T  follow  some  wild  river,  on  whose  breast  no  sail  may  be ; 
Dark  woods  around  it  shiver, — I  dream  of  all  things  free : 
V  )f  a  happy  forest  child,  wifti  the  fawns  and  flowers  at  play, 
Of  an  Indian  midst  the  wild,  with  the  stars  to  guide  Lis  way ; 
Of  a  chief  his  warriors  leading ;   of  an  archer's  greenwood  tree : 
Mv  heart  in  chains  is  bleeding,  and  I  dream  of  all  things  free ! 

V. 

William  Tell. — Bryant. 
Chains  may  subdue  the  feeble  spirit,  but  thee, 

Tell,  of  the  iron  heart !  they  could  not  tame ! 

For  thou  wert  of  the  mountains ;  they  proclaim 
The  everlasting  creed  of  liberty. 
That  creed  is  written  on  the  untrampled  snow, 

Thunder'd  by  torrents  which  no  power  can  hold, 

Save  that  of  God,  when  he  sends  forth  his  cold, 
And  breathed  by  winds  that  through  the  free  heaven  blow. 
Thou,  while  thy  prison  walls  were  dark  around, 

Didst  meditate  the  lesson  Nature  taught. 

And  to  thy  brief  captivity  was  brought 
A  vision  of  thy  Switzerland  unbound. 

The  bitter  cup  they  mingled,  strengthen'd  thee 

For  tJie  great  work  to  set  thy  country  free. 

VI. 

Tell  on  Switzerland. — Knowles.' 

Once  Switzerland  was  free !     Wifh  what  a  pride 
I  used  to  walk  these  hills, — look  up  to  Heaven, 
And  bless  God  that  it  was  so !     It  was  free 
From  end  to  end,  from  cliff  to  lake  'twas  free ! 


'  Jamks  Sheridan  Knowles,  an  English  poet,  is  the  most  Huccessful  of 
modern  tragic  dramatists.  His  first  play,  "  Virginius,"  appeared  in 
1820,  and  had  an  extraordinary  run  of  success.  All  his  plays  have 
been  collected  and  republished,  of  which,  perhaps,  none  is  more  popu- 
lar than  "  William  Tell,"  from  which  the  above  wa-  extracted. 


390  NATIONAL    FIFTH    EEADEB. 

Free  as  our  tSrrents  are,  that  leap  our  rocks, 

And  plow  our  valleys,  without  asking  leave ; 

Or  as  our  peaks,  that  wear  their  caps  of  snow 

In  very  presence  of  the  regal  sun ! 

How  happy  was  I  in  it  then !     I  loved 

Its  very  storms.     Ay,  often  have  I  sat 

In  my  boat  at  night,  when  midway  o'er  the  lake 

The  stars  went  out,  and  down  the  mountain  gorge 

The  wind  came  roaring, — I  have  sat  and  eyed 

The  thunder  breaking  from  his  cloud,  and  smiled 

To  see  him  shake  his  lightnings  o'er  my  head, 

And  think  I  had  no  master  save  his  own. — 

You  know  the  jutting  cliff,  round  which  a  track 

Up  hither  winds,  whose  base  is  but  the  brow 

To  such  another  one,  with  scanty  room 

For  two  abreast  to  pass  ?     O'ertaken  there 

By  the  mountain  blast,  I've  laid  me  flat  along 

And  while  gust  foUow'd  gust  more  furiously. 

As  if  to  sweep  me  o'er  the  horrid  brink. 

And  I  have  thought  of  other  lands,  whose  storms 

Are  summer  flaws  to  those  of  mine,  and  just 

Have  wish'd  me  there ; — the  thought  that  mine  was  &ee 

Has  check'd  that  wish,  and  I  have  raised  my  head, 

And  cried  in  thraldom  to  that  furious  wind, 

Blow  on  !     This  is  the  land  of  liberty  ! 

VII. 

How  Sleep  the  Brave. — Collins.' 

flow  sleep  the  brave,  who  sink  to  rest, 
By  all  their  country's  wishes  blest ! 
When  Spring,  wifh  dewy  fingers  cold. 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallow'd  mold, 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 
Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 
By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  ring; 
By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung ; 
There  Honor  comes,  a  pilgrim  gray, 


*  Collins,  nee  Bioicuipl  ital  Slu-tch.  p.  492. 


GREECE. 

To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay ; 
And  Free(  .jm  shall  awhile  repair, 
To  dwell,  a  weeping  hermit,  there. 

VIII. 

The  Greeks  at  TnERMOPYLiE. — Byron 

They  fell  devoted,  but  undying ; 
The  v§ry  gale  their  names  seem'd  sighing , 
The  waters  murmur'd  of  their  name ; 
The  woods  were  peopled  wifti  their  fame ; 
The  silent  pillar,  lone  and  gray, 
Claim'd  kindred  with  their  sacred  clay : 
Their  spirits  wrapp'd  the  dusky  mountain, 
Their  memory  sparkled  o'er  the  fountain : 
The  meanest  rill,  the  mightiest  river, 
Roll'd  mingling  with  their  fame  forever. 
Despite  of  every  yoke  she  bears, 
The  land  is  glory's  still  and  theirs. 
'Tis  still  a  watchword  to  the  earth  : 
When  man  would  do  a  deed  of  worth, 
He  points  to  Greece,  and  turns  to  tread, 
So  sanction'd,  on  the  tyrant's  head ; 
He  looks  to  her,  and  rushes  on 
Where  life  is  lost,  or  freedom  won. 


aoi 


126.  Greece. 


^•H 


E  who  hath  bent  him  o'er  the  dead, 
Ere  the  first  day  of  death  is  fled, 
The  first  dark  day  of  nothingness. 
The  last  of  danger  and  distress. 
Before  Decay's  efi"acing  fingers 
Have  swept  the  lines  where  beauty  lingem. 
And  mark'd  the  mild,  angelic  air. 
The  rapture  of  repose,  that's  there. 
The  fix'd  yet  tender  traits  that  streak 
The  languor  of  the  placid  check — 

And  but  for  that  sad,  shrouded  eye, 


392  NATIONAL   FIFT^    READEK. 

That  fires  not,  wins  not,  weeps  not,  now 
A.nd  but  for  that  chill,  changeless  brow, 

Where  cold  obstruction's  apathy 
Appalls  the  gazing  mourner's  heart, 
As  if  to  him  it  could  impart 
The  doom  he  dreads,  yet  dwells  upon — 
Y§s,  but  for  these,  and  these  alone. 
Some  moments,  ay,  one  treacherous  hour,— 
He  still  might  doubt  the  tyrant's  power ; 
So  fair,  so  calm,  so  softly  seal'd, 
The  first — last  look  by  death  reve»»l'd  I 

2.  Such  is  the  aspect  of  this  shore ; 

'Tis  Greece — but  living  Greece  no  more  I 

So  coldly  sweet,  so  deadly  fair, 

We  start — for  soul  is  wanting  there. 

Hers  is  the  loveliness  in  death, 

That  parts  not  quite  wifli  parting  breath ; 

But  beauty  with  that  fearful  bloom. 

That  hue  which  haunts  it  to  the  tomb — 

Expression's  last  receding  ray 

A  gilded  halo  hovering  round  decay. 

The  farewell  beam  of  feeling  past  away ! 
Spark  of  that  flame,  perchance  of  heavenly  birth, 
Which  gleams,  but  warms  no  more  its  cherish'd  earth, 

3.  Clime  of  the  unforgotten  brave! 
Whose  land  from  plain  to  mountain-cave 
Was  Freedom's  home  or  Glory's  grave  I 
Shrine  of  the  mighty !  can  it  be 

That  this  is  all  remains  of  thee  ? 
Approach,  thou  craven,  crouching  slave ! 

Say,  is  not  this  Thermopylae  ?' 
These  waters  blue  that  round  you  lave, 

*  ThermopylaB  (ther  m6p' e  le),  a  famous  pass  of  Greece,  about  five 
miles  long,  and  originally  from  60  to  60  yards  in  width.  It  is  hemmed 
In  on  one  side  by  precipitous  rocks  of  fr  jm  400  to  600  feet  in  height, 
and  on  the  other  side  by  the  sea  and  an  impassable  morass.  Here 
Leonidas  and  his  300  Spartans  died  in  defending  Grofco  against  the  in- 
vasion of  Xerxes,  b.  c.  189. 


GREECE.  393 

0  servile  offspring  of  the  free — 
Pronounce  what  sea,  what  shore  is  this  ? 
The  gulf,  the  rock,  of  Salamis !' 
These  scenes,  their  story  not  unknown, 
Arise,  and  make  again  your  own : 
Snatch  from  the  ashes  of  your  sires 
The  embers  of  their  former  fires ; 
And  he  who  in  the  strife  expires 
Will  add  to  theirs  a  name  of  fear, 
That  Tyranny  shall  quake  to  hear, 
And  leave  his  sons  a  hope,  a  fame, 
They  too  will  rather  die  than  shame ; 
For  Freedom's  battle  once  begun, 
Bequeathed  by  bleeding  sire  to  son, 
Though  baffled  6ft,  is  ever  won. 

4.  Bear  witness,  Greece,  thy  living  page ! 
Attest  it,  many  a  deathless  age ! 
While  kings,  in  dusty  darkness  hid, 
Have  left  a  nameless  pyramid. 
Thy  heroes,  though  the  general  doom 
Hath  swept  the  column  from  their  tomb, 
A  mightier  monument  command — 
The  mountains  of  their  native  land ! 
There  points  thy  Muse,  to  stranger's  eye, 
The  graves  of  those  that  can  not  die ! 
'Twere  long  to  tell,  and  sad  to  trace. 
Each  step  from  splendor  to  disgrace: 
Enough,  no  ^reign  foe  could  quell 
Thy  soul,  till  from  itself  it  fell. 
Yes !  self-abasement  paved  the  way 
To  villain-bonds  and  despot  sway.  Btkom.* 

'  S41  a  mis,  an  island  of  Greece,  in  the  Gulf  of  .Mgina,  ten  miles  W. 
of  Athens.  Its  shape  is  very  irregular ;  the  surface  is  mountainous, 
and  wooded  in  some  parts.  In  the  channel  between  it  and  the  main 
land,  the  Greeks,  under  Themistocles,  gained  a  memorable  naval  vic- 
tory over  the  Persians,  b.  c.  480.  Solon  and  Euripides  were  natives  of 
Salamis. — 'See  Biograph' .»»1  Sketch,  p.  292. 


894  national  fifth  seadeb. 

127.  Song  of  the  Greeks,  1822. 

1  A  GAIN  to  the  battle,  Achaians !' 

il.  Our  hearts  bid  the  tyrants  defiance ; 
Our  land, — the  first  garden  of  Liberty's  tree, — 
It  has  been,  and  shall  yet  be,  the  land  of  the  free ; 
For  the  cross  of  our  faith  is  replanted, 
The  pale  dying  crescent  is  daunted. 
And  we  march  that  the  footprints  of  Mahomet's'  slaves 
May  be  wash'd  out  in  blood  from  our  forefathers'  graves. 
Their  spirits  are  hovering  o'er  us, 
And  the  sz^ord  shall  to  glory  restore  us. 

2.  Ah !  what  though  no  succor  advances, 

Nor  Christendom's  chivalrous'  lances 

Are  stretch'd  in  our  aid  ? — Be  the  combat  our  own ! 

And  we'll  perish  or  conquer  more  proudly  alone ; 
For  we've  sworn  by  our  country's  assaulters, 
By  the  virgins  they've  dragg'd  from  our  altars, 

By  our  massacred  patriots,  our  children  in  chains, 

By  our  heroes  of  old,  and  their  blood  in  our  veins, 
That,  living,  we  will  be  victorious, 
Or  that,  dying,  our  deaths  shall  be  glorious. 

8.  A  breath  of  submission  we  breathe  not : 

The  %wovdi  that  we've  drawn  we  will  sheaflie  not : 
Its  scabbard  is  left  where  our  martyrs  are  laid. 
And  the  vengeance  of  ages  has  whetted  its  blade. 
Earth  may  hide,  waves  engulf,  fire  consume  us ; 
But  they  shall  not  to  slavery  doom  us : 
If  they  rule,  it  shall  be  o'er  our  ashes  and  graves : — 
But  we've  smote  them  already  wifli  fire  on  the  waves. 
And  new  triumphs  on  land  are  before  us ; — 
To  the  charge ! — Heaven's  banner  is  o'er  us. 

*  Achaians  (a  ki'  anz),  the  people  of  Achaia,  a  department  of  the  king 
dom  of  Greece. — '  Mahomet,  a  false  prophet  of  Arabia,  who,  by  the  mere 
force  of  his  genius  and  his  convictions,  subdued  many  nations  to  his  re- 
ligion, his  laws,  and  his  scepter  ;  and  whose  authority  at  tlie  present 
time  is  acknowledged  by  nearly  two  t  undred  millions  of  souls.  He  was 
bom  in  670,  end  died  on  the  8th  of  June,  C32. — *  Chivalrous  (slilv'  al  rusX 


MAECO    B0ZZARI8.  395 

This  day — shall  ye  blash  for  its  story ; 

Or  brighten  your  lives  wifli  its  glory  ? — 
Our  women — oh,  say,  shall  they  shriek  in  despair, 
Or  embrace  us  from  conquest,  with  wreaths  in  their  hair? 

Accursed  may  his  memory  blacken, 

If  a  coward  there  be  that  would  slacken 
Till  weVe  trampled  the  turban,  and  shown  ourselves  worth 
Being  sprung  from,  and  named  for,  the  god-like  of  earth. 

Strike  home ! — and  the  world  shall  revere  us 

As  heroes  descended  from  heroes. 

Old  Greece  lightens  up  wifli  emotion ! 
Her  inlands,  her  isles  of  the  ocean, 
Fanes  rebuilt,  and  fair  towns,  shall  with  jubilee  ring. 
And  the  Nine  shall  new  hallow  their  Helicon's'  spring. 
Our  hearths'  shall  be  kindled  in  gladness. 
That  were  cold,  and  extinguished  in  sadness ; 
Whilst  our  maidens  shall  dance  with  their  white  waving  arma, 
Singing  joy  to  the  brave  that  delivered  their  charms, — 
When  the  blood  of  yon  Mussulman  cravens 
Shall  have  crimson'd  the  beaks  of  our  ravens ! 

Thomas  Campbell." 


1.    AT 

A  r 


128.  Makco  Bozzaris. 

midnight,  in  his  guarded  tent. 
The  Turk  was  dreaming  of  the  hour 
When  Greece,  her  knee  in  suppliance  bent, 

Should  tremble  at  his  power ; 
In  dreams,  through  camp  and  court,  he  bore 
The  trophies  of  a  conqueror ; 

In  dreams,  his  song  of  triumph  heard ; 
Then  wore  his  monarch's  signet  ring ; 
Then  press'd  that  monarch's  throne, — a  king ; 
As  wild  his  thoughts,  and  gay  of  wing, 

As  Eden's  garden  bird. 

*  Helicon  (hM'ekon),  a  famous  mountain  in  Boeotia,  in  Greece,  from 
which  flows  a  fountain,  and  where  resided  the  Muses.—'  Hearths  (1  lirfehs). 
—•See  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  137. 


396  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

2.  At  midnight,  in  tlie  ^rest  shades, 

Bozzaris  ranged  his  Suliote  band, 
True  as  the  steel  of  their  tried  blades, 

Heroes  in  heart  and  hand. 
There  had  the  Persian's  thousands  stood, 
There  had  the  glad  earth  drunk  their  blood 

On  old  Plataea's*  day. 
And  now,  there  breathed  that  haunted  air 
The  sons  of  sires  who  conquer'd  there, 
Wifli  arm  to  strike,  and  soul  to  dare. 

As  quick,  as  far  as  they. 

3.  An  hour  pass'd  on — the  Turk  awoke ; 

That  bright  dream  was  his  last ; 
He  woke — to  hear  his  sentries  shriek, 
"  To  arms !  they  come  /  the  Greek !  the  Greek  '. 
He  woke — to  die  midst  flame,  and  smoke. 
And  shout,  and  groan,  and  saber-stroke, 

And  death-shots  falling  thick  and  fast 
As  lightnings  from  the  mountain-cloud ; 
And  heard,  wifli  voice  as  tmmpet  loud, 

Bozzaris  cheer  his  band : 
"  Strike — till  the  last  arm'd  foe  expires  ; 
Strike — for  your  altars  and  your  fires ; 
STRIKE — for  the  green  graves  of  your  sires ; 

God — and  your  native  land !" 

4.  They  fought — like  brave  men,  l5ng  and  well ; 

They  piled  that  gromid  wifli  Moslem  slain  • 
They  conquer'd — but  Bozzaris  fell, 

Bleeding  at  every  vein, 
.ais  few  surviving  comrades  saw 
His  smile,  when  rang  their  proud  huzza, 

'  Plataea  (plS,  tS'a),  a  ruined  city  of  Greece,  in  Bojotia,  seven  miles  8 
VV.  of  Thebes.  Near  it,  b.  c.  479,  the  G  eeks,  under  Pausanias,  totally 
defeated  and  nearly  annihilated  the  grand  Persian  army,  under  Mardo- 
nius,  who  was  killed  in  the  action.  Here,  also,  fell  Marco  Bozzaris, 
in  an  attack  upon  the  T  iikish  camp,  August  20th,  1823,  and  expired 
in  the  moment  of  victory.     His  last  words  were  :  "To  dii  for  libcriv 

18  A  PLKASUUB.  NOT  A  PAIN  " 


MARCO    B0ZZABI8.  397 

And  the  red  field  was  won ; 
Then  saw  in  death  his  eyelids  close, 
Calmly  as  to  a  night's  repose, 

Like  flowers  at  set  ot  sun. 

6.  Come  to  the  bridal  chamber,  Death ! 

Come  to  the  mother,  when  she  feels. 
For  the  first  time,  her  first-born's  breath ; 

Come  when  the  blessed  seals 
That  close  the  pestilence  are  broke. 
And  crowded  cities  wail  its  stroke ; 
Come  in  consumption's  ghastly  form. 
The  earthquake's  shock,  the  ocean's  storm ; 
Come  when  the  heart  beats  high  and  warm 

Wifli  banquet-song,  and  dance,  and  wine,-  - 
And  thou  art  terrible ! — The  tear. 
The  groan,  the  knell,  the  pall,  the  bier ; 
And  all  we  know,  or  dream,  or  fear, 

Of  agony,  are  thine. 

6    But  to  the  hero,  when  his  s2^;ord 

Has  won  the  battle  for  the  free. 
Thy  voice  sounds  like  a  prophet's  word ; 
And  in  its  hollow  tones  are  heard 

The  thanks  of  millions  yet  to  be. 
Bozzaris !  wifti  the  storied  brave 

Greece  nurtured  in  her  glory's  time, 
Rest  thee  :  there  is  no  prouder  grave, 

Even  in  her  own  proud  clime. 

We  tell  thy  doom  without  a  sigh ; 
For  thou  art  Freedom's  now,  and  Fame's, — 
One  of  the  few,  the  immortal  names. 

That  were  not  born  to  die !  Hallecr. 

Fitz-Greenf  Halleck  was  born  at  Guilford,  in  Connecticut,  August,  1795. 
and  at  the  age  of  eighteen  entered  the  banking-house  of  Jacob  Barker,  in 
New  York,  with  which  he  was  associated  several  years,  subsequently  perform- 
ing the  duties  of  a  book-keeper  in  the  private  office  of  John  Jacob  Astor.  Soon 
after  the  decease  of  that  noted  millionaire,  in  1848,  he  retired  to  his  birth- 
place, where  he  has  since  resided.  He  evinced  a  taste  for  poetry  and  wrote 
verses  at  a  very  early  period.  "  Twilight,"  his  first  oflf^ering  to  the  "  Evening 
Post,"  appeared  in  October,  1818.  The  year  follow'/ig  he  gained  his  fiist  celeb- 
rity in  literature  as  a  town  wit.  by  pro«liioiu;L'.  with  his  friend  Drake,  several 


398  NATIONAL    FIFlfl    EEAJ)ER. 

witty  and  satirical  pieces,  which  appeared  in  the  columns  of  the  **  Evening 
Post"  with  the  signature  of  Croaker  4"  Co.;  and  his  fame  was  fully  establishtjd 
by  the  publication  of  a  volume  of  his  poems  in  1827.  His  ix)etry  is  characterized 
by  its  music  and  perfection  of  versification,  and  its  vigor  and  healthy  sentiment. 


129.   Conversations  after  Marriage.' 
Enter  Lady  Teazle  and  Sir  Peter.' 

Sir  Peter,  Lady  Teazle,  Lady  Teazle,  V\\  not  bear  it ! 

Lady  Teazle.  [Right^  Sir  Peter,  Sir  Peter,  you  may  bear  it 
or  not,  as  you  please ;  but  I  ougbt  to  have  my  own  way  in  every 
thing ;  and  what's  more,  I  will  too.  What !  though  I  was  edu- 
cated in  the  country,  I  know  very  well  that  women  of  fashion  in 
London  are  accountable  to  nobody  after  they  are  married. 

Sir  P.  \Left^  Very  well,  ma'am,  very  well — so  a  husband  is 
to  have  no  influence,  no  authority  ? 

Lady  T,  Authority !  No,  to  be  sure : — if  you  wanted  au- 
thority over  me,  you  should  have  adopted  me,  and  not  married 
me ;  I  am  sure  you  were  old  enough. 

Sir  P.  Old  enough ! — ay — there  it  is.  Well,  well.  Lady 
Teazle,  though  my  life  may  be  made  unhappy  by  your  temper, 
I'll  not  be  ruined  by  your  extravagance. 

Lady  T.  My  extravagance !  I'm  sure  I'm  not  more  extrava- 
gant than  a  woman  ought  to  be. 

Sir  P.  No,  no,  madam,  you  shall  throw  away  no  more  sums 
on  such  unmeaning  luxury.  'Slife  1  to  spend  as  much  to  fiirnish 
your  dressing-room  with  flowers  in  winter  as  would  suffice  tx) 
turn  the  Pantheon'  into  a  green-house. 

Lady  T.  Lord,  Sir  Peter,  am  I  to  blame,  because  flowers  are 
dear  in  cold  weather  ?  You  should  find  fault  wifli  the  climate, 
and  not  with  me.  For  my  part,  I'm  sure,  1  wish  it  was  spring 
all  the  year  round,  and  that  roses  grew  under  our  feet ! 

Sir  P.  Zounds !   madam — if  you  had  been  born  to  this,  1 

'  From  *'  The  School  for  Scandal." — ^"The  following  conversations  are 
admirable  exercises  in  Personation,  see  p.  60. — *  Pan  th6'  on,  a  magnifl- 
cent  temple  at  Rome,  dedicated  to  all  the  gods.  It  is  now  converted 
into  a  church.  It  was  built  or  embellished  by  Agbippa,  «on-in-law  to 
Augustus,  is  of  a  round  or  cylindrical  form,  with  a  spherical  dome,  and 
144  feet  in  diameter. 


CONVERSATIONS    AFTER   MARRIAGE.  391) 

shouldn't  wonder  at  your  talking  thus;  but  you  forggt  what 
your  situation  was  when  I  married  you. 

Lady  T.  No,  no,  I  don't ;  'twas  a  very  disagreeable  one,  or  I 
should  never  have  married  you. 

Sir  P.  Yes,  yes,  madam,  you  were  then  in  somewhat  a  hum- 
bler style, — the  daughter  of  a  plain  country  squire.  Recollect, 
Lady  Teazle,  when  I  saw  you  first  sitting  at  your  tambor,  in  a 
pretty  figured  linen  gown,  wi£h  a  bunch  of  keys  at  your  side ; 
your  hair  combed  smooth  over  a  roll,  and  your  apartment  hung 
round  with  fruits  in  worsted  of  your  own  working. 

Lady  T.  Oh  yes !  I  remember  it  very  well,  and  a  curious  life 
I  led, — my  daily  occupation  to  inspect  the  dairy,  superintend  the 
j>oultry,  make  extracts  from  the  family  receipt-book,  and  comb 
my  aunt  Deborah's  lap-dog. 

Sir  F.  Yes,  yes,  ma'am,  'twas  so  indeed. 

Lady  T.  And  then,  you  know,  my  evening  amusements ; — to 
draw  patterns  for  ruflles,  which  I  had  not  materials  to  make  up ; 
to  play  Pope  Joan'  with  the  curate ;  to  read  a  novel  to  my  aunt ; 
or  to  be  stuck  down  to  an  old  spinet  to  strum  my  father  to  sleep 
after  a  fox-chase.  \^CrosseSy  L. 

Sir  P.  [i^.]  I  am  glad  you  have  so  good  a  memory.  Yes, 
madam,  these  were  the  recreations  I  took  you  from ;  but  now 
you  must  have  your  coach — vis-a-vis^ — and  three  powdered 
footmen  before  your  chair ;  and,  in  the  summer,  a  pair  of  white 
cats  to  draw  you  to  Kensington  Gardens.  No  recollection,  I 
suppose,  when  you  were  content  to  ride  double,  behind  the  but- 
ler, on  a  dock'd  coach-horse. 

Lady  T.  \L^  No — I  never  did  that :  I  deny  the  butler  and 
the  coach-horse. 

Sir  P.  This,  madam,  was  your  situation ;  and  what  have  I 
done  for  you  ?  I  have  made  you  a  woman  of  fashion,  of  fortune, 
of  rank ;  in  short,  I  have  made  you  my  wife. 

Lady  T.  Well,  then ;  and  there  is  but  one  thing  more  you 
san  make  me  add  to  the  obligation,  and  that  is — 

Sir  P.  My  widow,  I  suppose  ? 

Lady  T.  Hem!  hem! 


"Pope  Joan,  a  game  at  cards.-   'Vis-k-vis  [\\/  i  \h').  a  carriage  in 
^bicb  two  persons  sit  fiuro  u^  fac« 


4-00  NATIONAL    KIFl'H    KEADKK.    ' 

Sir  P.  I  thank  you,  madam;  but  dcn't  flatter  yourself;  fot 
though  your  ill  conduct  may  disturb  my  peace  of  mind,  it  shall 
never  break  my  heart,  I  promise  you :  however,  I  am  equally 
obliged  to  you  for  the  hint.  [Crosses^  L. 

Lady  T.  Then  why  will  you  endeavor  to  make  yourself  so 
disagreeable  to  me,  and  thwart  me  in  every  little  elegant  ex- 
pense ? 

Sir  P.  [Z.]  'Slife,  madam,  I  say,  had  you  any  of  these  little 
elegant  expenses  when  you  married  me  ? 

Lady  T.  Lud,  Sir  Peter !  would  you  have  me  be  out  of  the 
fashion  ? 

Sir  P.  The  fashion,  indeed !  What  had  you  to  do  wifli  the 
fashion  before  you  married  me  ? 

Lady  T.  For  my  part,  I  should  think  you  would  like  to  have 
your  wife  thought  a  woman  of  taste. 

Sir  P.  Ay ;'  there  again — taste.  Zounds  I  madam,  you  had 
no  taste  when  you  married  me ! 

Lady  T.  That's  very  true  indeed.  Sir  Peter ;  and  after  having 
married  you,  I  should  never  pretend  to  taste  again,  I  allow. 
But  now.  Sir  Peter,  since  we  have  finished  our  daily  jangle,  I 
presume  I  may  go  to  my  engagement  at  Lady  Sncerwell's. 

Sir  P.  Ay,  there's  another  precious  circumstance — a  charm- 
ing set  of  acquaintance  you  have  made  there. 

Lady  T.  Nay,  Sir  Peter,  they  are  all  people  of  rank  and  for- 
tune, and  remarkably  tenacious  of  reputation. 

Sir  P.  Yes,  egad,  they  are  tenacious  of  reputation  wifli  » 
vengeance ;  for  they  don't  choose  anybody  should  have  a  charac- 
ter but  themselves ! — Such  a  crew !  Ah  1  many  a  wretch  has 
rid  on  a  hurdle^  who  has  done  less  mischief  than  these  utterers 
of  forged  tales,  coiners  of  scandal,  and  clippers  of  reputation. 

Lady  T.  What !  would  you  restrain  the  freedom  of  speech  ? 

Sir  P.  Ah !  they  have  made  you  just  as  bad  as  any  one  of 
the  society. 

Lady  T,  Why,  I  believe  I  do  bear  a  part  with  a  tolerable 
gi-ace. 

Sir  P.  Grace,  indeed !  ^ 

*  Ay  (&I). — ^  Hurde  (hSr  dl),  a  sort  of  sledge  iised  to  draw  traitors  to 
execution. 


CC.'NVEKSAIIONS    AFl'EK    MARRIAGE.  401 

Lady  T.  But  I  vow  1  bear  no  malice  against  the  people  I 
abuse.  Wlien  I  say  an  ill-natured  thing,  'tis  out  of  pure  good- 
humor  ;  and  I  take  it  for  granted,  they  deal  exactly  in  the  same 
manner  with  me.  But,  Sir  Peter,  you  know  you  promised  to 
come  to  Lady  Sneerwell's  too. 

Sir  P.  Well,  well,  I'll  call  in  just  to  look  after  my  own  char- 
acter. 

Lady  T.  Then  indeed  you  must  make  haste  after  me,  or 
you'll  be  too  late.     So,  good-by  to  you.        [Exit  Lady  Teazle. 

Sir  P.  So — I  have  gained  much  by  my  intended  expostula- 
tion :  yet,  with  what  a  charming  air  she  contradicts  every  thing 
I  say,  and  how  pleasingly  she  shows  her  contempt  for  my  au- 
thority !  Well,  though  I  can't  make  her  love  me,  there  is  great 
satisfaction  in  quarreling  with  her ;  and  I  think  she  never  ap- 
pears to  such  advantage,  as  when  she  is  doing  every  thing  in 
her  power  to  plague  me.  [Exit. 


130.  Conversations  after  Marriage — concluded. 
Enter  Lady  Teazle  and  Sir  Peter. 

Lady  Teazle.  Lud !  Sir  Peter,  I  hope  you  haven't  been  quar- 
reling with  Maria  ?  It  is  not  using  me  well  to  be  ill-humored 
when  I  am  not  by. 

Sir  Peter.  [Left.]  Ah!  Lady  Teazle,  you  might  have  the 
power  to  make  me  good-humored  at  all  times. 

Lady  T.  [Right^  I  am  sure  I  wish  I  had ;  for  I  want  you  to 
be  in  a  charming  sweet  temper  at  this  moment.  Do  be  good- 
humored  now,  and  let  me  have  two  hundred  pounds,  will  you  ? 

Sir  P.  Two  hundred  pounds !  What,  ain't  I  to  be  in  a  good 
humor  without  paying  for  it  ?  But  speak  to  me  thus,  and  i'  faith 
there's  nothing  I  could  refuse  you.  You  shall  have  it  [gives  her 
notes\  ;  but  seal,  me  a  bond  of  repayment. 

Lady  T,  Oh  no ;  there — my  note  of  hand  will  do  as  well. 

[  Offering  her  hand. 

Sir  P.  And  you  shall  no  longer  reproach  me  with  not  giving 
you  an  independent  settlement.  I  mean  shortly  to  surprise  you : 
— but  shall  we  always  live  thus,  hey  ? 

Lady  T.  If  you  please.  I'm  sure  I  don't  care  how  soon  we 
leavc  off  (j^uarreling,  provided  you'll  own  you  were  tired  first. 

26 


±02  NATIONAL    FIFl^U    READEK. 

Sir  P,  Well ;  then  let  our  future  contest  be,  who  shall  be 
most  obliging. 

Lady  T,  I  assure  you,  Sir  Peter,  good-nature  becomes  you  : 
you  look  now  as  you  did  before  we  were  married,  when  you  used 
to  walk  wifli  me  under  the  elms,  and  tell  me  stories  of  what  a 
gallant'  you  were  in  your  youth,  and  chuck  me  under  the  chin, 
you  would ;  and  ask  me  if  I  thought  I  could  love  an  old  fello  u 
who  would  deny  me  nothing — didn't  you  ? 

Sir.  P.  Yes,  yes,  and  you  were  kind  and  attentive — 

Lady  T.  Ay,  so  I  was,  and  would  always  take  your  part  when 
my  acquaintance  used  to  abuse  you,  and  turn  you  into  ridicule. 

Sir  P.  Indeed ! 

Lady  T.  Ay ;  and  when  my  cousin  Sophy  ha^  called  you  a 
stiff,  peevish  old  bachelor,  and  laughed  at  me  for  thinking  of 
marrying  one  who  might  be  my  father,  I  have  always  defended 
you,  and  said,  I  didn't  think  you  so  ugly  by  any  means. 

Sir  P.  Thank  you. 

Lady  T.  And  I  dared  say  you'd  make  a  very  good  sort  of  a 
husband. 

Sir  P.  And  you  prophesied  right :  and  we  shall  now  be  the 
happiest  couple — 

Lady  T.  And  never  differ  again  ? 

Sir  P.  No,  never ! — though  at  the  same  time,  indeed,  my  dear 
Lady  Teazle,  you  must  watch  your  temper  very  seriously ;  for 
in  all  our  little  quarrels,  my  dear,  if  you  recollect,  my  love,  you 
always  begin  first. 

Lady  T.  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear  Sir  Peter ;  indeed,  you 
always  gave  the  provocation. 

Sir  P.  Now  see,  my  angel !  take  care — contradicting  isn't 
the  way  to  keep  friends. 

Lady  T.  Then  don't  you  begin  it,  my  love. 

Sir  P.  There,  now!  you — you  are  going  on.  You  don't por- 
ceive,  my  life,  that  you  are  just  doing  the  v6ry  thing  which  yo\i 
know  always  makes  me  angry. 

Lady  T.  Nay,  you  know  if  you  will  be  angry  without  any 
leason,  my  dear — 

Sir  P.  There !  now  you  want  to  quarrel  again. 

Lady  T.  No,  I  am  sure  T  don't  but  if  you  wiU  be  so 
peevish — 


CU^'VEKiATlUNS    AFIER    MAKKIAGE.  403 

Sir  P.  There  now !  who  begins  first  ? 

Lad]/  T.  Why  you,  to  be  sure.  I  said  nothing — but  there's 
no  bearing  your  temper. 

Sir  P.  No,  no,  madam ;  the  fault's  in  ycxir  own  temper. 

Lady  T,  Ay,  you  are  just  what  my  cousin  Sophy  said  you 
would  be. 

Sir  P.  Your  cousin  Sophy  is  a  forward,  impertinent  gipsy. 

Lady  T.  You  are  a  great  bear,  I'm  sure,  to  abuse  my  relation>. 

Sir  P.  Now  may  all  the  plagues  of  marriage  be  doubled  on 
me,  if  ever  I  try  to  be  friends  wifli  you  any  more. 

Lady  T.  So  much  the  better. 

Sir  P.  No,  no,  madam :  'tis  evident  you  never  cared  a  pin 
for  me,  and  I  was  a  madman  to  marry  you — a  pert,  rural'  co- 
quette,* that  had  refused  half  the  honest  squires  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. 

Lady  T.  And  I  am  sure  I  was  a  fool  to  many  you — an  old 
dangling  bachelor,  who  was  single  at  fifty,  only  because  he  never 
could  meet  wifh  any  one  who  would  have  him.  \_Crosses  L. 

Sir  P.  Ay,  ay,  madam ;  but  you  were  pleased  enough  to 
listen  to  me :  you  never  had  such  an  off'er  before. 

Laxly  T.  No !  didn't  I  refuse  Sir  Tivy  Terrier,  who  every- 
body said  would  have  been  a  better  match  ?  for  his  estate  is  just 
as  good  as  yours,  and  he  has  broke  his  neck  since  we  have  been 
married.  [^Crosses  H, 

Sir  P.  [L.]  I  have  done  wifli  you,  madam !  You  are  an  un- 
feeling, ungrateful — but  there's  an  end  of  every  thing.  I  believe 
you  capable  of  every  thing  that  is  bad.  Yes,  madam,  I  now  be- 
lieve the  reports  relative  to  you  and  Charles,  madam.  Yes, 
madam,  you  and  Charles  are — not  without  grounds. 

Lady  T.  [i2.]  Take  care.  Sir  Peter !  you  had  better  not  in- 
sinuate any  such  thing !  I'll  not  be  suspected  without  cause,  I 
promise  you. 

Sir  P,  Very  well,  madam !  very  well !  A  separate  mainten- 
ance as  soon  as  you  please !  Yes,  madam,  or  a  divorce ! — I'li 
make  an  example  of  myself  for  the  benefit  of  all  old  bachelors. 

Lady  T.  Agreed !  agreed !  And  now,  my  dear  Sir  Peter,  we 
are  of  a  mind  once  more,  we  may  be  the  happiest  couple — and 

^  Rural  (1-6' ral).—' Coquette  (kokftf). 


'to  J-  NATIONAL    FIKrH     READER. 

never  differ  again,  you  know — ha !  ha !  ha !  V\  ell,  you  are  go 
ing  to  be  in  a  passion,  I  see,  and  I  shal^  only  interrupt  you ;  so» 
bye — bye.  [Exit  Lady  Teazle. 

Sir  F.  Plagues  and  tortures!  Can't  I  make  her  angry 
either  !  Oh,  I  am  the  most  miserable  fellow  !  But  I'll  not  beai 
her  presuming  to  keep  her  temper :  no !  she  may  break  my 
heart,  but  she  shan't  keep  her  temper.  [Exit 

SlIERIXAN. 

Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan,  the  celebrated  orator,  statesman,  and  comic 
play-writer,  was  born  at  Dublin  in  1751.  His  father,  Thomas  Sheridan,  was 
well  known  as  an  actor,  elocutionist,  and  author  of  a  pronouncing  dictionary 
Richard,  an  idle  and  mischievous  boy,  passed  at  school  for  a  hopeless  block- 
head. He  left  Harrow  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  studied  law  with  indifferent  suc- 
cess in  the  Middle  Temple,  and,  when  barely  of  age,  made  a  runaway  marriage 
with  Miss  Linley,  a  beautiful  and  accomplished  singer.  His  earliest  comedy 
"The  Rivals,"  a  humorous  and  lively  play,  appeared  in  1775,  when  the  author 
was  little  more  than  twenty-three  years  old.  About  the  same  period  he  became 
one  of  the  proprietors  of  Drury  Lane  Theater.  His  farce  of  "  St.  Patrick's  Day," 
and  opera  of"  The  Duenna,"  appeared  in  1776 ;  and  "  The  School  for  Scandal," 
which  in  plot,  character,  incident,  dialogue,  humor,  and  wit,  perhaps,  surpasses 
any  comedy  of  modern  times,  was  played  in  1777.  His  last  play,  "  The  Critic," 
appeared  in  1779.  He  obtained  a  seat  in  parliament  in  1780.  He  worked  hard 
for  the  House  of  Commons,  and,  in  his  great  efforts,  was  one  of  the  most  showy 
and  striking  of  parliamentaiy  orators.  His  famous  speech  on  the  trial  of  War- 
ren Hastings  produced  an  impression  on  the  public  mind  never,  perhaps,  sur- 
passed. Losing  his  wife  in  1792,  he  married  again,  in  1796,  a  lady  with  whom 
he  received  je5()00 ;  and  with  this  money,  and  jE  15,000  from  shares  in  the  theater, 
iie  i)urchased  an  estate,  but  his  sottish  habits  soon  dispelled  his  dreams  of  splen- 
dor, and  finally  reduced  him  to  penury.  He  was  treasurer  of  tlie  navy  during 
the  ministry  of  Fox  and  Grenville  ;  but  after  181-2  he  was  no  longer  able  to 
speak  in  the  house.    He  died  in  1816,  and  was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey. 


B 


131.   A  Curtain  Lecture  of  Mrs.  Caudle.^ 

AH !  that's  the  third  umbrella  gone  since  Christmas.  What 
were  you  to  do  ?  Why,  let  him  go  home  in  the  rain,  to  be 
sure.  I'm  very  certain  there  was  nothing  about  him  that  could 
spoil, — Take  cold,  indeed!  He  doesn't  look  like  one  of  the 
sort  to  take  cold.  Besides,  he'd  have  better  taken  cold  than 
taken  our  umbrella. — Do  you  hear  the  rain,  Mr.  Caudle  ?     I  say, 

» This  lesson  presents  an  excellent  field  for  the  display  of  what  may 
be  called  the  colloquial  style  of  reading.  Anger  generally  expresses  itself 
with  rapidity,  and  the  character  of  a  scoU  is  best  sustained  by  great  vol- 
ubility of  language. 


A    CURTAIN  LECTURE  OF  MRS.  CAUDLE.       405 

do  you  hear  the  rain  ?  And,  as  I'm  alive,  if  it  isn't  St.  Swiihin's 
day!  Do  you  hear  it  against  the  windows?  Nonsense  I  you 
don't  impose  upon  me ;  you  can't  be  asleep  wifti  such  a  shower 
as  that !  Do  you  hear  it,  I  say  ?  Oh !  you  do  hear  it !  Well, 
that's  a  pretty  flood,  I  think,  to  last  for  six  weeks ;  and  no  stir 
ring  all  the  time  out  of  the  house. 

2.  Pooh !  don't  think  me  a  fool,  Mr.  Caudle ;  don't  insult  ine  ; 
he  return  the  umbrella !  Anybody  would  think  you  were  born 
yesterday.  As  if  anybody  ever  did  return  an  umbrella !  There : 
do  you  hear  it  ?  Worse  and  worse.  Cats  and  dogs,  and  for  six 
weeks :  always  six  weeks ;  and  no  umbrella ! — I  should  like  to 
know  how  the  children  are  to  go  to  school  to-morrow !  They 
shan't  go  through  such  weather ;  I  am  determined.  No ;  they 
shall  stop  at  home  and  never  learn  any  thing  (the  blessed  crea- 
tures !),  sooner  than  go  and  get  wet !  And  when  they  grow  up, 
I  wonder  who  they'll  have  to  thank  for  knowing  nothing :  who, 
indeed,  but  their  father.  People  who  can't  feel  for  their  own 
children  ought  never  to  be  fathers. 

3.  But  I  know  why  you  lent  the  umbrella :  oh  !  yes,  I  know 
very  well.  I  was  going  out  to  tea  at  dear  mother's  to-morrow  : 
you  knew  that,  and  you  did  it  on  purpose.  Don't  tell  me ;  you 
hate  to  have  me  go  there,  and  take  every  mean  advantage  to 
hinder  me.  But  don't  you  think  it,  Mr.  Caudle ;  no,  sir :  if  it 
comes  down  in  bucketsful,  Fll  go  all  the  more.  No;  and  I 
won't  have  a  cab !  Where  do  you  think  the  money's  to  come 
from  ?  You've  got  nice  high  notions  at  that  club  of  yours  I  A 
cab,  indeed !  Cost  me  sixteen-pence,  at  least.  Sixteen-pence ! 
two-and-eight-pence ;  for  there's  back  again.  Cabs,  indeed !  I 
should  like  to  know  who's  to  pay  for  'em ;  for  I'm  sure  you 
can't,  if  you  go  on  as  you  do,  throwing  away  your  property,  and 
beggaring  your  children,  buying  umbrellas ! 

4.  Do  you  hear  the  rain,  Mr.  Caudle  ?  I  say,  do  you  hear  it  ? 
But  I  don't  care — I'll  go  to  mother's  to-morrow — I  will ;  and 
what's  more,  I'll  walk  every  step  of  the  way;  and  you  know 
that  will  give  me  my  death.  Don't  call  me  a  foolish  woman ; 
it's  you  that's  the  foolish  man.  You  know  I  can't  wear  clogs ; 
and  with  no  umbrella,  the  wet's  sure  to  give  me  a  cold :  it  al- 
ways does ;  but  what  do  you  care  for  that  ?  Nothing  at  all.  I 
may  be  laid  up,  for  what  you  care,  as  t  dure  say  I  shall ;  and  a 


i06  NA'I'IONAL    FIFTH    IiKAI»KIl. 

pretty  doctor's  bill  there'll  be.  I  hope  there  will.  It  will  teach 
you  to  lend  your  umbrellas  again.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  I 
caught  my  death :  yes,  and  that's  what  you  lent  the  umbrella 
for.     Of  course ! 

5.  Nice  clothes  I  get,  too,  traipsing  through  weather  like  this. 
My  gown  and  bonnet  will  be  spoiled  quite.  Needn't  I  wear  'em, 
then  ?  Indeed,  Mr.  Caudle,  I  shall  wear  'em.  No,  Sir ;  I'm  not 
Ljoing  out  a  dowdy,  to  please  you  or  anybody  else.  Gracious 
knows!  it  isn't  often  that  I  step  over  the  threshold  : — indeed,  I 
might  as  well  be  a  slave  at  once  :  better,  I  should  say ;  but  when 
I  do  go  out,  Mr.  Caudle,  I  choose  to  go  as  a  lady. 

6.  Oh  !  that  rain — if  it  isn't  enough  to  break  in  the  windows. 
Ugh !  I  look  forward  with  dread  for  to-morrow  !  How  I  am  to 
go  to  mother's,  I'm  sure  I  can't  tell ;  but  if  I  die,  I'll  do  it. — No, 
Sir ;  I  won't  borrow  an  umbrella  :  no ;  and  you  shan't  buy  one. 
Mr.  Caudle,  if  you  bring  home  another  umbrella,  I'll  throw  it 
into  the  street.  Ha !  And  it  was  only  last  w^eek  I  had  a  new 
nozzle  put  to  that  umbrella.  I'm  sure  if  I'd  have  known  as 
much  as  I  do  now,  it  might  have  gone  without  one.  Paying 
for  new  nozzles  for  other  people  to  laugh  at  you  !  Oh  !  it's  all 
very  well  for  you  :  you  can  go  to  sleep.  You've  no  thought  of 
your  poor  patient  wife,  and  your  own  dear  children  ;  you  tliink 
of  nothing  but  lending  umbrellas !  Men,  indeed  ! — call  them- 
selves lords  of  the  creation !  pretty  lords,  when  they  can't  even 
take  care  of  an  umbrella! 

Y.  I  know  that  walk  to-morrow  will  be  the  death  of  me.  But 
that's  what  you  want :  then  you  may  go  to  your  club,  and  do  a? 
you  like ;  and  then  nicely  my  poor  dear  children  will  be  used ; 
but  then.  Sir,  then  you'll  be  happy.  Oh  !  don't  tell  me !  I 
know  you  will :  else  you'd  never  have  lent  the  umbrella ! — You 
have  to  go  on  Thursday  about  that  summons;  and,  of  course, 
you  can't  go.  No,  indeed :  you  donH  go  without  the  umbrella 
Vou  may  lose  the  debt,  for  what  I  care — it  won't  be  so  much  as 
-puiling  your  clothes — better  lose  it;  people  deserve  to  lose  debts 
who  lend  umbrellas! 

8.  And  I  should  like  to  know  how  I'm  to  go  to  mother's  with- 
out the  umbrella.  Oh !  don't  tell  me  that  I  said  I  would  go ; 
that's  nothing  to  do  wifh  it, — nothing  at  all.  She'll  think  I'm 
Meglecting  her*  and  the  little  money  we're  to  h*^ve,  we  shan't 


SELECT    PASSAGES    IN    \EK8E.  4:07 

have  at  all ; — because  we've  no  umbrella. — The  children,  too ! 
(dear  things !)  they'll  be  sopping  wet :  for  they  shan't  stay  at 
home ;  they  shan't  lose  their  learning ;  it's  all  their  father  will 
leave  them,  I'm  sure !  But  they  shall  go  to  school.  Don't  tell 
me  they  shouldn't  (you  are  so  aggravating,  Caudle,  you'd  spoil 
the  temper  of  an  angel !) ;  they  shall  go  to  school :  mark  that ! 
and  if  they  get  their  deaths  of  cold,  it's  not  my  fault ;  I  didn't 

LEND  THE  UMBRELLA.  DoUGLAS  JeBROLD. 

Douglas  Jerrold  was  bom  in  London  on  the  3d  of  January,  1803.  His  fatlier, 
Samuel  Jerrold,  was  manager  of  the  two  theaters  of  Sheeraess  and  Soutliend, 
and  in  these  sea-places  much  of  his  childhood  was  passed.  His  school-days 
were  few,  and  the  results  of  his  studies  unimportant.  At  eleven  years  oi  age  he 
became  a  midshipman  in  the  British  navy,  and  served  about  two  years,  thus  ac- 
quiring nautical  experience,  which  he  used  in  writing  "  Black-eyed  Susan,"  one 
of  his  most  successful  plays.  A  mere  boy  when  he  came  ashore.,  he  went  to 
London,  became  an  apprentice  in  a  printing-office,  and  went  through  the  ordi- 
mxy  course  of  a  printer's  life.  At  this  time,  though  the  hours  of  labor  were 
long,  he  studied  very  hard,  and  wrote  pieces  for  the  magazines.  Emboldened 
by  success,  he  wrote  numerous  plays  for  the  theaters  before  he  was  twenty  years 
old.  Among  the  greatest  and  matmest  of  his  comedies  are  "  The  Prisoner  ot 
War,"  "  Bubbles  of  a  Day,"  "  Time  works  Wonders,"  "  St.  Cupid,"  and  "  The 
Heart  of  Gold."  His  chief  brilliant  and  original  prose  writings,  except  "  A  Man 
made  of  Money,"  were  first  prepared  for  magazines.  "  Men  of  Character"  ap- 
peared in  "  Blackwood's  Magazine,"— "  The  Chronicles  of  Ciovernook,"  in  the 
"Illuminated  Magazine,"  of  which  he  was  founder  and  editor, — and  "The 
Story  of  a  Feather,"  "  Punch's  Letters  to  his  Son,"  and  "  The  Caudle  Lec- 
tures" in  "  Punch,"  of  which  he  was  the  originator.  The  last  hterary  event  in 
his  life  was  his  assuming  the  editorship  of  "  Lloyd's  Newspaper,"  which  rose 
under  his  hand  to  great  circulation  and  celebrity.  He  died,  from  disease  oi  the 
heart,  on  the  8th  of  June,  1857. 


132.   Select  Passages  in  Yeese. 
I. 
Exhortation  to  Courage. 
But  wherefore'  do  you  droop  ?     Why  look  you  sad  ? 
Be  great  in  act,  as  you  have  been  in  thought ; 
Let  not  the  world  see  fear  and  sad  distrust 
Govern  the  motion  of  a  kingly  eye ; 
Be  stirring  as  the  time ;  be  fire  wifli  fire ; 
Threaten  the  threatener  and  outface  the  brow 
Of  bragging  horror :  so  shall  inferior  eyes, 
That  borrow  their  behaviors  from  the  great, 

'  Wherefore  ( wh  ^i-'  f 6r) . 


408  NATIONAL    FIFIH   READER. 

Grow  great  by  your  example ;  and  put  on 

The  dauntless'  spirit  of  resolution ; 

Show  boldness  and  aspiring  confidence. 

What !  shall  they  seek  the  lion  in  his  den, 

And  fright  him  there,  and  make  him  tremble  there? — 

Oh,  let  it  not  be  said !     Forage,  and  run 

To  meet  displeasure  further  from  the  doors. 

And  grapple  with  him  ere  he  comes  so  nigh ! 

II. 
Fame. — Pope. 
Nor  Fame  I  slight,  nor  for  her  favors  call : 
She  comes  unlook'd  for,  if  she  comes  at  all. 
But  if  the  purchase  cost  so  dear  a  price 
As  soothing  Folly,  or  exalting  Vice, 
Oh !  if  the  Muse  must  flatter  lawless  sway, 
And  follow  Btill  where  Fortune  leads  the  way, — 
Or  if  no  basis  bear  my  rising  name. 
But  the  fallen  ruins  of  another's  fame, — 
Then  teach  me.  Heaven,  to  scorn  the  guilty  bays,* 
Drive  from  my  breast  that  wretched  lust  of  praise ; 
Unblemish'd  let  me  live,  or  die  unknown  : 
Oh,  grant  an  honest  fame,  or  grant  me  none ! 

III. 
Valui:  of  Reputation. — Shakspeare. 
Good  name  in  man  and  woman,  dear  my  lord, 
Is  the  immediate  jewel  of  their  souls. 
Who  steals  my  purse,  steals  trash; — ^'tis  something,  nothing; 
*Twas  mine,  'tis  his,  and  has  been  slave  to  thousands ; — 
But  he  that  filches  from  me  my  good  name, 
Robs  me  of  that  which  not  enriches  him, 
And  makes  me  poor  indeed. 

IV. 

Pleasure. — Burns.' 
But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread, — 
You  seize  the  flower — its  bloom  is  shed ; 

'  D&Mnt'  less. — '  Bays  (biz),  a  prize  ;  an  honorary  crown  or  garland. — 
•  Robert  Burns,  the  great  peasant  poet  of  Scotland,  was  born  near  Ayr^ 


SKLECT    TASSAGES    IN    VEUSK.  4:09 

Or  like  the  snow-falls  in  the  river, — 
A  moment  white — then  lost  forever ; 
Or  like  the  borealis  race, 
That  flit  ere  you  can  point  their  place ; 
Or  like  the  rainbow's  lovely  form, 
Evanishing  amid  the  storm. 

V. 

Pleasure. — Young. 

oiVE  Pleasure's  name  to  naught  but  what  has  passM 

The  authentic  seal  of  Reason,  and  defies 

The  tooth  of  Time ;  when  past,  a  pleasure  still ; 

Dearer  on  trial,  lovelier  for  its  age. 

And  doubly  to  be  prized,  as  it  promotes 

Our  future,  while  it  forms  our  present  joy. 

Some  joys  the  future  overcast,  and  some 

Throw  all  their  beams  that  way,  and  gild  the  tomb. 

Some  joys  endear  eternity  ;  some  give 

Abhorr'd  Annihilation'  dreadful  charms. 

Are  rival  joys  contending  for  thy  choice  ? 

Consult  thy  whole  existence,  and  be  safe ; 

That  oracle  will  put  all  doubt  to  flight. 

VI. 

Time  never  Returns. 

Mark  how  it  snows !  how  fast  the  valley  fills, 

And  the  sweet  groves  the  hoary  garment  wear; 
Yet  the  warm  sunbeams,  bounding  from  the  hills, 

Shall  melt  the  veil  away,  and  the  young  green  appear: 
But,  when  old  age  has  on  your  temples  shed 

Her  silver  frost,  there's  no  returning  sun  : 
Swift  flies  our  summer,  swift  our  autumn's  fled, 

"When  youth  and  love  and  spring  and  golden  joys  are  gone. 

In  the  district  of  Kyle,  on  the  25th  of  January,  1759.  He  almost  ul- 
ways  wrote  directly  from  nature.  His  poetry  is  replete  with  fire,  hu- 
mor, and  pathos,  combined  with  perfect  simplicity  and  naturalness. 
His  brightest  effusions  were  born  of  his  toils,  aspirations,  and  suiferings. 
He  died  on  the  21st  of  July,  179G. — *  An  ni  hi  li'  tion,  destni<'iL<»n  ;  act 
of  rcliicitig  to  notliincr. 

18 


410  NATIONAL    FlFrU    ItEADKK. 

VII. 

LVGRATJTUDE. ShAKSPEARE. 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind  :  tliou  art  not  so  unkind 

As  man's  ingratitude. 
Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen,  because  thou  art  not  seen, 

Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 
Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky :  thou  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 

As  benefits  forgot. 
Though  thou  the  waters  warp,  thy  tooth  is  net  so  sharp 

As  friend  remember'd  not. 

VIII. 

Severity  and  Gentleness. — Gold  Pen. 

While  slumber  bound  mine  eyes,  last  night, 

Methought  that  from  some  lofty  height 

An  eagle  touch'd  me  in  his  flight ! 

I  seized  the  bird,  and  struggling  tried 

To  imprison  him  fast  by  my  side : 

L6ng  did  he  furious  battle  wage ! 

Hurt,  I  6ft  struck  at  him  in  rage ! 

But  while  I  wounded  him  the  more, 

Deeper  my  bleeding  side  he  tore. 

Until  at  length,  I,  strangely  moved, 

Stroked  his  fierce  head  as  one  who  loved ; 

When  lo,  he  ceased — he  laid  at  rest, 

Peaceful,  serene  upon  my  breast. 

And  I  saw  in  the  vision  fair. 

Now  'twas  a  dove  that  nestled  there ! 

IX. 

Mercy. — Shakspeark. 

The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strain'd ; 
It  droppeth  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 
Upon  the  place  beneafh.     It  is  twice  bless'd ; 
It  blesseth  him  that  gives,  and  him  that  takes, 
'Tis  mightiest  in  the  mightiest ;  it  becomes 
The  throned  monarch  better  than  his  crown : 
His  scepter  shows  tlie  force  of  temporal  power, 


SELECT    PASSAGES    IN    V^KllSE.  4:11 

Tlie  attribute  to  awe  and  majesty, 

Wherein  doth  sit  the  fear  and  dread  of  »iiugs? 

But  mercy  is  above  the  scepter'd  sway, 

It  is  enthroned  in  the  hearts  of  kings, 

It  is  an  attribute  to  God  himself; 

And  earthly  power  doth  then  show  likest  God's, 

When  mercy  seasons  justice.     Therefore,  Jew, 

Though  justice  be  thy  plea,  consider  this — 

That,  in  the  course  of  justice,  none  of  us 

Should  see  salvation.     We  do  pray  for  mercy ; 

And  that  same  prayer  doth  teach  us  all  to  render 

The  deeds  of  mercy. 

X. 

Man. — Young. 

How  poor,  how  rich,  how  abject,  how  august, 
How  complicate,  how  wonderful,  is  man ! 
How  passing  wonder  He  who  made  him  such ! 
Who  center'd  in  our  make  such  strange  extremes 
From  different  natures  marvellously  mix'd, 
Connection  ex'quisite  of  distant  worlds ! 
Distinguish'd  link  in  being's  endless  chain ! 
Midway  from  nothing  to  the  Deity ! 
A  beam  ethereal,'  sullied,  and  absorpt ! 
Tliouixh  sullied  and  dishonored,  still  divine : 
Dim  miniature'^  of  greatness  absolute ! 
An  heir  of  glory !  a  frail  child  of  dust  1 
Helpless  immortal !  insect  infinite ! 
A  worm  !  a  god ! — I  tremble  at  myself. 
And  in  mj^self  am  lost !     At  home  a  stranger, 
Thought  wanders  up  and  down,  surprised,  aghast, 
And  wondering  at  her  own  :  how  Reason  reels  I 
Oh  what  a  miracle  to  man  is  man, 
Triumphantly  distress'd !     What  joy,  what  dread, 
Alternately  transported  and  alarm'd ! 

•Ethfe'real,  formed  of  ether  or  thin  air;  celestial;  heavenly.— 
Miniature  (nnn'etur),  a  representation  of  natiir3  on  a  very  small 
vale  :  lilunioss  ,)r  picture. 


412  NATIONAL    FIFTH   KEADElt. 

What  can  preserve  my  life,  or  what  destroy  ? 
An  angel's  arm  can't  snatch  me  from  the  grave ; 
Legions  of  ange.s  can't  confine  me  there ! 
Even  silent  night  proclaims  my  soul  immortal  I 


133.  Blennerhassett's  Temptation. 

A  PLAIN  man,  who  knew  nothing  of  the  curious  traramuta- 
tions'  which  the  wit  of  man  can  work,  would  be  very  apt  to 
wonder  by  what  kind  of  legerdemain''  Aaron  Burr'  had  con- 
trived to  shuffle  himself  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  pack,  as  an 
ac'cessory,  and  turn  up  poor  Blennerhassett  as  principal,  in  this 
treason.  Who,  then,  is  Aaron  Burr,  and  what  the  part  which 
he  has  borne  in  this  transaction  ?  He  is  its  author,  its  projector, 
its  active  ex'ecuter.  Bold,  ardent,  restless,  and  aspiring,  his 
brain  conceived  it,  his  hand  brought  it  into  action. 

2.  Who  is  Blennerhassett?  A  native  of  L-eland,  a  man  of 
letters,  who  fled  from  the  storms  of  his  own  country,  to  find 
quiet  in  ours.  On  his  arrival  in  America,  he  retired,  even  from 
the  population  of  the  Atlantic  States,  and  sought  quiet  and  soli- 
tude in  the  bosom  of  our  western  forests.  But  he  brought  with 
him  taste,  and  science,  and  wealth ;  and  "  lo,  the  desert  smiled !" 
Possessing  himself  of  a  beautiful  island  in  the  Ohio,  he  rears 
upon  it  a  palace,  and  decorates  it  with  every  romantic  embellish- 
ment of  fancy.     A  shrubbery  that  Shenstone^  might  have  en- 

'  Trans  rau  ti'  tion,  a  change  into  another  substance  or  form. — '  Leger- 
demain (lej  er  de  min'),  sleight  of  hand  ;  trick. — '  Aaron  Burr  was  born 
in  Newark,  N.  J.,  February  5,  1756.  His  military  talents  secured  for 
tiim  the  high  position  of  lieutenant-colonel  in  the  army  of  the  Kevolu- 
tion  ;  after  which  he  acquired  a  prominent  position  as  a  great  lawyer  in 
New  York,  where  he  was  made  attorney-general  in  1789.  He  was  a 
member  of  the  United  States  Senate  from  1791  to  1797,  where  he  was 
the  leader  of  the  republican  party.  He  was  made  vice-president  in 
1800 ;  killed  Alexander  Hamilton  in  a  duel  in  1804 ;  was  tried  on  a 
charge  of  treasonable  designs  against  Mexico,  at  Richmond,  Va.,  ia 
1807,  of  which  he  was  finally  acquitted  ;  and  died  on  Staten  Island, 
St^ptember  14,  183G.  His  debauchery,  and  his  imscrup  ilous  conduct  as 
a  statesman,  deprived  him  of  all  sympathy,  and  he  left,  accordingly, 
but  an  ill  fame  l>ehind  him  — *  William  Suenstone,  a  pleasing  writer 
both  of  prose  and  verse,  noted  for  his  tasi  j  in  landscape-gardening,  wiw 
\M»ni  iM  Sluopsliiro,  Euiiland.  in  1714.  and  li(<l  in  17G;} 


41S 

/ied,  bloDms  around  him.  Music  that  might  have  charmed 
Calypso'  and  her  nymphs,  is  his.  An  extensive  library  spreads 
its  treasures  before  him.  A  philosophical  apparatus  offers  to 
him  all  the  secrets  and  mysteries  of  nature.  Peace,  tranquillity, 
and  innocence,  shed  their  mingled  delights  around  him.  And, 
to  crown  the  enchantment  of  the  scene,  a  wife,  who  is  said  to  be 
lovely  even  beyond  her  sex,  and  graced  with  every  accomplish- 
ment that  can  render  it  irresistible,  had  blessed  him  with  her 
love,  and  made  him  the  father  of  several  children. 

3.  The  evidence  would  convince  you.  Sir,  that  th:'s  is  but  a 
faint  picture  of  the  relil  life.  In  the  midst  of  all  this  peace,  this 
innocence,  and  this  tranquillity, — this  feast  of  the  mind,  thi? 
pure  banquet'  of  the  heart, — the  destroyer  comes.  He  comes 
to  turn  this  paradise  into  a  hell.  Yet  the  flowers  do  not  wither 
at  his  approach,  and  no  monitory  shuddering  through  the  bosom 
of  their  unfortunate  possessor  warns  him  of  the  ruin  that  is 
coming  upon  him.  A  stranger  presents  himself.  It  is  Aaron 
Burr.  Introduced  to  their  civilities  by  the  high  rank  which  he 
had  lately  held  in  his  country,  he  soon  finds  his  way  to  their 
hearts,  by  the  dignity  and  elegance  of  his  demeanor,  the  light 
and  beauty  of  his  conversation,  and  the  seductive  and  fascinating 
power  of  his  address. 

4.  The  conquest^  was  not  difficult.  Innocence  is  ever  simple 
and  credulous.  Conscious  of  no  designs  itself,  it  suspects  none 
in  others.  It  wears  no  guards  before  its  breast.  Every  door 
and  portal  and  avenue  of  the  heart  is  thrown  open,  and  all  who 
choose  it  enter.  Such  w^s  the  state  of  Eden  when  the  serpent 
entered  its  bowers !  The  prisoner,  in  a  more  engaging  form, 
winding  himself  into  the  open  and  unpractised  heart  of  the  un- 
fortunate Blennerhassett,  found  but  little  diflBculty  in  changing 
the  native  character  of  that  heart,  and  the  objects  of  its  alfec- 
tions.  By  degrees  he  infuses  into  it  the  poison  of  his  own  am- 
bition. He  breathes  into  it  the  fire  of  his  own  courage ; — a  dar- 
ing and  desperate  thirst  for  glory ;  an  ardor,  panting  for  all  the 
storm,  and  bustle,  and  hurricane  of  life. 

*  Calypso,  a  fabled  nymph,  who  inhabited  the  island  cf  Ogygia,  on 
which  Ulysses  was  shipwrecked. — " Banquet  (bing' kwet). — 'Conquest 
(koug  kwest). 


414  NATIONAL    FIFrU    KEADKK. 

5.  In  a  short  time,  tlie  whole  man  is  changed,  and  every  ob- 
ject of  his  former  delight  relinquished.  No  more  he  enjoys  the 
tranquil  scene  :  it  has  become  flat  and  insipid  to  his  taste.  His 
books  arc  abandoned.  His  retort  and  crucible  are  thrown  aside. 
His  shrubbery  blooms  and  breathes  its  fragrance  upon  the  air  in 
vain — he  likes  it  not.  His  ear  no  longer  drinks  the  rich  melody 
of  music :  it  longs  for  the  trumpet's  clangor,  and  the  cannon's 
roar.  Even  the  prattle  of  his  babes,  once  so  sweet,  no  longei 
affcGls  him ;  and  the  angel  smile  of  his  wife,  which  hitherto 
touched  his  bosom  with  ecstasy  so  unspeakable,  is  now  unfell 
and  unseen.  Greater  objects  have  taken  possession  of  his  soul. 
His  imagination  has  been  dazzled  by  visions  of  diadems,  and 
stars,  and  garters,  and  titles  of  nobility.  He  has  been  taught  to 
burn  with  restless  emulation  at  the  names  of  great  heroes  and 
conquerors, — of  Cromwell,'  and  Ciesar,**  and  Bonaparte.^  His 
enchanted  island  is  destined  soon  to  relapse  into  a  wilderness ; 
and,  in  a  few  months,  we  find  the  tender  and  beautiful  partner 
of  his  bosom,  whom  he  lately  "  permitted  not  the  winds  of" 
summer  "  to  visit  too  roughly," — we  find  her  shivering,  at  mid- 
night, on  the  wintry  banks  of  the  Ohio,  and  mingling  her  tears 
with  the  torrents  that  froze  as  they  fell. 

G.  Yet  this  unfortunate  man,  thus  deluded  from  his  interest 
and  his  happiness — thus  seduced  from  the  pafhs  of  innocence 
nnd  peace — thus  confounded  in  the  toils  which  w^ere  deliberately 
spread  for  him,  and  overwhelmed  by  the  mastering  spirit  and 
genius  of  another, — this  man,  thus  ruined  and  undone,  and  made 
to  play  a  subordinate  part  in  this  grand  drama  of  guilt  and 
treason — this  man  is  to  be  called  the  principal  ofi'cndcr ;  while 
he,  by  whom  he  was  thus  plunged  in  misery,  is  comparatively 
innocent,  a  mere  ac'cessory  !  Is  this  reason?  Is  it  law?  Is  it 
humanity  ?  Sir,  neither  the  human  heart  nor  the  human  mi- 
derstanding  will  bear  a  perversion  so  monstrous  and  absurd ;  so 
shocking  to  the  soul ;  so  revolting  to  reason  !      William  ^^\uI. 

William  Wirt,  an  able  American  lawyer  and  miscellaneous  writer  was  born 
in  Bladensburg,  Maryland,  November  8th,  1772.     He  was  a  private  tutor  at 

*  Oliver  Cromwkll,  a  great  warrior  and  statesman,  Lord  Protector  ol 
England,  Avas  born  on  the  25th  of  April,  1599,  and  died  on  the  3d  ol 
September,  1659  — '  Cjesavl,  see  p.  209,  note  4. — '  Bonapautk,  see  p  205, 
note  1. 


riATTLE    OF    \VAiiSAW.  415 

fifteen;  studied  m\v ;  was  admitted  to  the  bar,  in  his  twentieth  year;  reinoved 
to  Richmcnd,  Virginia,  where  he  met  with  eminent  success  in  his  profession, 
and  became  cliancellor  and  district-attorney.  In  1817,  in  the  presidency  of 
Monroe,  he  became  Attorney-general  of  the  United  States,  an  office  w^hicli  he 
hi^d  for  twelve  years.  His  defence  of  BlexNNErhassett,  in  the  famous  trial  of 
Aaron  Burr  for  treason,  in  1807,  from  which  the  above  extract  is  taken,  won 
for  him  a  great  reputation  for  fervid  eloquence.  On  his  retirement  from  office, 
in  1829,  he  took  up  his  permanent  residence  at  Baltimore,  where  he  became 
actively  engaged  in  the  practice  of  the  law.  He  was  the  author  of  the  "  Old 
Bachelor,"  "  The  British  Spy,"  "  Life  of  Patrick  Henry,"  &c.  He  died  Febru 
ary  Ifcth,  1834. 


.Q. 


134.  Battle  of  Waesaw. 

SACRED  trutli !  thy  triumph  ceased  awhile, 
And  hope,  thy  sister,  ceased  wifli  thee  to  smile, 
When  leagued  oppression  pour'd  to  northern  wars 
Ilcr  whisker'd  pandoors,  and  her  fierce  hussars, 
Waved  her  dread  standard  to  the  breeze  of  morn, 
Peal'd  her  loud  drum,  and  twang'd  her  trumpet  horn  I 
Tumultuous  horror  brooded  o'er  her  van, 
Presaging  wrath  to  Poland  and  to  man. 

2.  Warsaw's  last  champion  from  her  heip"^t  surveyed, 
Wide  o'er  the  fields,  a  waste  of  ruin  iaid ; 

O  Heaven !  he  cried,  my  bleeding  country  save ! 
Is  there  no  hand  on  high  to  shield  the  brave  ? 
Yet,  though  destruction  sweep  these  lovely  plains, 
Rise,  fellow-men !  our  country  yet  remains ! 
By  that  dread  name,  we  wave  the  sz^'ord  ©n  high, 
And  swear  for  her  to  live,  wifh  her  to  die ! 

3.  He  said,  and  on  the  rampart  heights  array'd 
His  trusty  warriors — few,  but  undismay'd ; 
Firm-paced  and  slow,  a  horrid  front  they  form, 
Still  as  the  breeze,  but  dreadful  as  the  storm ; 
Low,  murmuring  sounds  along  their  banners  fly. 
Revenge  or  death ! — the  watchword  and  reply  : 
Then  peal'd  the  notes  omnipotent  to  charm, 
And  the  loud  tocsin  toll'd  their  last  alarm. 

4.  In  vain,  alas !  in  vain,  ye  gallant  few ! 

From  rank  to  rank  your  voile j  d  thunder  flew  : 
Oh,  bloodiest  picture  in  the  "  book  of  time  !" 


il6  NATIONAI.    FIFTH   READEK. 

Sarmatia^  fell,  unwept,  without  a  crime ! 
Found  not  a  generous  friend,  a  pitying  foe, 
Strength  in  her  arms,  nor  mercy  in  her  woe ! 
Uropp'd  from  her  nerveless  grasp  the  shatter'd  spcai, 
Closed  her  bright  eye,  and  curb'd  her  high  career : 
Hope,  for  a  season,  bade  the  world  farewell. 
And  Freedom  shriek'd  as  Kosciusko'  fell  i 

>.  The  sun  went  down,  nor  ceased  the  carnage  there, 
Tumultuous  murder  shook  the  midnight  air  1 
On  Prague's  proud  arch  the  fires  of  ruin  glow, 
His  blood-dyed  waters  murmuring  far  below ; 
The  storm  prevails,  the  rampart  yields  away, 
Bursts  the  wild  cry  of  horror  and  dismay ! 
Hark !  as  the  smoldering  piles  wifli  thunder  fall, 
A  thousand  shrieks  for  hopeless  mercy  call : 
Earth  shook — red  meteors  flash'd  along  the  sky. 
And  conscious  nature  shudder'd  at  the  cry.        Campbbll. 


135.   Scene — Hamlet  and  his  Mother.* 

i/a7w/e<. ,Now,  mother,  what's  the  matter? 

Queen.  Hamlet,  thou  hast  thy  father  much  offended. 

*  Sarmatia,  the  classical  name  of  Poland.  For  many  centmies  Poland 
existed  as  an  independent  and  powerful  State,  but  having  fallen  a  prey 
to  internal  dissensions,  it  was  violently  seized  by  Russia,  Prussia,  and 
Austria,  and  divided  between  them.  The  first  partition  took  place  in 
1772,  a  second  in  1793,  and  a  third  in  1795.  The  Poles  have  made  sev 
eral  attempts  to  recover  their  liberty,  the  last  of  which  was  in  1830. — 
"Thaddeus  Kosciusko,  a  noble  Pole,  was  born  in  175G.  When  young, 
he  served  the  United  States  in  their  war  of  independence  against  Eng- 
land, where  he  rose  to  the  rank  of  general.  He  returned  to  Poland, 
and  signalized  himself  at  the  head  of  one  of  her  armies  in  1792  and 
1793  ;  and  when  the  Poles  rose  against  their  oppressors  in  1794,  he  was 
made  their  generalissimo,  and  their  dictator.  He  was  wounded  and 
taken  prisoner  by  the  Russians  at  the  fatal  battle  of  Maciovice,  October 
1st,  1794,  and  the  complete  downfall  of  his  country  soon  followed.  He 
closed  his  unstained  and  noble  life  in  Switzerland,  in  1817. — *  See  Bio- 
graphical Sketch,  p.  137. — *  The  father  of  Hamlct  was  k'.ng  of  Denmark, 
and  was  murdered  by  his  own  brother  who,  within  a  short  time  afiei 
the  murder,  married  Hamlet's  mother,     'j'he  ghost  of  Hamlet's  father 


HAMLET    AND    AIS,    MOTHER.  4:17 

IlainleU  Mother,  you  have  my  father  much  offended. 

Queen.  Come,  come,  you  answer  with  an  idle  tongue 

Hamlet.  Go,  go,  you  question  wifli  a  wicked  tongue. 

Queen.  Why,  how  now,  Hamlet  ? 

Hamlet.  What's  the  matter  now  ? 

Queen.  Have  you  forgot  me  ? 

Hamlet.  No,  by  the  rood,'  not  so : 

V^ou  are  the  queen ;  your  husband's  brother's  wife ; 
And — would  it  were  not  so ! — you  are  ray  mother. 

Queen.  Nay,  then  I'll  set  those  to  you  that  can  speak. 

Hamlet.  Come,  come,  and  sit  you  down ;  you  shall  not  budge 
You  go  not  till  I  set  you  up  a  glass 
Where  you  may  see  the  inmost  part  of  you. 

Queen.  What  wilt  thou  do  ? — thou  wilt  not  murder  a  c  I 

Hamlet.  Leave  wringing  of  your  hands :  peace ;  sit  you  down, 
And  let  me  wring  your  heart :  for  so  I  shall, 
If  it  be  made  of  penetrable  stuff; 
If  damned  custom  have  not  brazed  it  so. 
That  it  is  proof  and  bulwark  against  sense. 

Queen.  What  have  I  done,  that  thou  darest  wag  thy  tongue 
In  noise  so  rude  against  me  ? 

Hamlet.  Such  an  act, 

That  blurs  the  grace  and  blush  of  modesty ; 
Calls  virtue,  hypocrite ;  takes  off  the  rose 
From  the  fair  forehead  of  an  innocent  love. 
And  sets  a  blister  there ;  makes  marriage  vows 
As  false  as  dicer's  oath  !     Oh,  such  a  deed 
As  from  the  body  of  contraction  plucks 
The  very  soul ;  and  sweet  religion  makes 
A  rhapsody  of  words.     Heaven's  face  doth  glow ; 
Yea,  this  solidity  and  compound  mass, 


had,  in  a  previous  scene,  informed  his  son  of  his  uncle's  guilt,  and  ex- 
horted him  to  avenge  the  murder.  Hamlet,  doubtful  of  the  relation  of 
the  ghost,  and  fearful  that  it  might  be  only  the  tale  of  a  wicked  spirit, 
laid  a  plot  to  convince  himself  of  his  uncle's  participation  in  the  mur- 
der ;  and  the  scene  here  given  occurs  after  the  successful  issue  of  the 
plot,  and  he  becomes  fully  convinced  that  his  uncle  was  the  murderer 
of  his  father. — '  Hood,  the  cross,  or  an  image  of  Christ  on  the  cross,  with 
the  Virgin  Mary  and  a  saint,  or  St.  John,  on  each  Mde  of  it. 

27 


418  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Wifli  tristful  visage,  as  against  the  doom, 
Is  thoiiglit-sick  at  die  act. 

Queen.  Ah  mo !  what  act, 

That  roars  so  loud,  and  tlmnders  in  the  index  ? 

Hamlet.  Look  here,  upon  this  picture,  and  on  this;* 
The  counterfeit  presentment  of  two  brothers. 
See  what  a  grace  was  seated  on  this  brow : 
Hyperion's^  curls;  the  front  of  Jove'  himself; 
An  eye  like  Mars,''  to  threaten  and  command ; 
A  station  like  the  herald  Mercury,' 
New-lighted  on  a  heaven-kissing  hill ; 
A  combination,  and  a  form,  indeed, 
Where  every  god  did  seem  to  set  his  seal, 
To  give  the  world  assurance  of  a  man. 
This  was  your  husband. — Look  you,  now,  what  follows : 
Here  is  your  husband ;  Hke  a  mildew'd  ear. 
Blasting  his  wholesome  brother.     Have  you  eyes  ? 
Could  you  on  this  fair  mountain  leave  to  feed. 
And  batten  on  this  moor  ?     Ila !  have  you  eyes  ? 
You  can  not  call  it  love,  for  at  your  age 
The  heyday  in  the  blood  is  tame,  it's  humble. 
And  waits  upon  the  judgment ;  and  what  judgment 
Would  step  from  this  to  this  ? 

Queen.  Oh,  speak  no  more  ! 

Thou  turn'st  mine  eyes  into  my  very  soul ; 
And  there  I  see  such  black  and  grained  spots. 
As  will  not  leave  their  tinct.^     Oh,  speak  to  me  no  more ! 
These  words,  like  daggers,  enter  in  mine  ears; 
No  more,  sweet  Hamlet ! 


'  The  two  pictures  were  the  likeness  of  his  father,  worn  by  IlaniUit, 
and  the  likeness  of  his  uncle,  worn  by  Hamlet's  mother. — '  IIypkrion 
was  the  father  of  Aurora,  and  the  Sun  aud  Moon  ;  or,  as  Shakspeare  rep- 
resents, this  is  a  name  of  Apollo,  the  god  of  day,  who  was  distinguisb^'d 
for  his  beauty. — '  Jove,  see  p.  337,  note  4. — *  Mars,  an  ancient  llomau 
god,  who,  at  an  early  period,  was  identified  with  the  Greek  Aiua,  or 
the  god  delighting  in  bloody  war.  Next  to  Jupiter,  Mars  enjoyed  the 
highest  honors  at  Rome. — *  Mercury,  Inrmjihology,  the  messenger  aud 
interpreter  of  the  gods,  and  the  god  of  eloquence  and  of  commer<.:o. 
cjillod  TTermi.»s  by  ihn  CJrooks. — *'riiict  (t'ngkt),  si>ot ;  stain  ;  color. 


nAMI.ET   A^D    HIS   MOTHER.  415^ 

liamlel.  A  murderer  and  a  vi.lain  : 

A  slave  that  is  Jot  twentieth  part  the  tifhe 
Of  your  precedent  lord  : — a  vice  of  kiugs : 
L  cut-purse  of  the  empire  and  the  rule ; 
That  from  a  shelf  the  precious  diadem  stole, 
And  put  it  in  his  pocket! 

Queen.  No  more ! 

Hamlet.  A  king 

Of  shreds  and  patches ; \Enter  Ghost. 

Save  me  and  hover  o'er  me  wifli  your  wings, 

You  heavenly  guards  ! — What  would  your  gracious  figure  % 

Queen.  Alas,  he's  mad  ! 

Hmnlet.  Do  you  not  come  your  tardy  son  to  chide, 
That,  lapsed  in  time  and  passion,  lets  go  by 
The  important  acting  of  your  dread  command  ? 
Oh,  say ! 

Ghost.  Do  not  forget :  this  visitation 
Is  but  to  whet  thy  almost  blunted  purpose. 
But,  look !  amazement  on  thy  mother  sits : 
Oh,  step  between  her  and  her  fighting  soul ; 
Conceit  in  weakest  bodies  strongest  works : 
Speak  to  her,  Hamlet. 

Hamlet.  How  is  it  wifli  you,  lady  ? 

Queen.  Alas !  how  is't  with  you, 
That  you  do  bend  your  eye  on  vacancy. 
And  with  the  incorporal  air  do  hold  discourse? 
Whereon  do  you  look  ? 

Hamlet.  On  him  !  on  him !     Look  you,  how  pale  lie  glares ! 
Ills  form  and  cause  conjoin'd,  preaching  to  stones, 
Would  make  them  capable.     Do  not  look  on  me, 
Lest,  wifli  this  piteous  action,  you  convert 
My  stern  effects :  then  what  I  have  to  do 
VVill  want  true  color;  tears,  perchance,  for  blood. 

Queen.  To  whom  do  you  speak  this  ? 

Hamlet.  Do  you  see  nothing  there  ? 

Queen.  Nothing  at  all ;  yet  all  that  is  I  see. 

Hamlet.  Nor  did  you  nc  thing  hear  ? 

Queen.  No,  notking,  but  ourselvea. 

Hamlet.  Why,  look  you  there!  look,  hew  it  steals  away! 


i20  N&.TIONAL    FIFrn    RKADEK. 

My  father,  in  his  halit  as  he  lived ! 

I-ook,  where  he  goes,  even  now,  out  at  the  portal ! 

\ExU  GflORT 

Queen.  This  is  the  very  coimge  of  your  br.iin  : 
This  bodiless  creation,  ecstasy 
I<*  very  cunning  in. 

Hamlet.  Ecstasy ! 

My  pulse,  as  yours,  doth  temperately  keep  time. 
And  makes  as  healthful  music.     It  is  not  madness 
That  I  have  utter'd :  bring  me  to  the  test. 
And  I  the  matter  will  re-word ;  which  madness 
Would  gambol  from.     Mother,  for  love  of  grace, 
Lay  not  that  flattering  unction  to  your  soul, 
That  not  your  trespass,  but  my  madness,  speaks : 
It  will  but  skin  and  film  the  ulcerous  place. 
Whilst  rank  corruption,  mining  all  within. 
Infects  unseen.     Confess  yourself  to  Heaven ; 
Repent  what's  past ;  avoid  what  is  to  come ; 
And  do  not  spread  the  compost  on  the  weeds, 
To  make  them  ranker. 

Queen.  0  Hamlet !  thou  hast  cleft  my  heart  in  twain. 

Hamlet.  Oh,  throw  away  the  worser  part  of  it, 
And  live  the  purer  with  the  other  half. 
Good-night :  once  more,  good-night ! 
And  when  you  are  desirous  to  be  blest, 
ril  blessing  beg  of  you.  Shakspeark.* 


136.  Public  Yirtue. 

I  HOPE,  that  in  all  that  relates  to  personal  firmness,  all  tliat 
concerns  a  just  appreciation  of  the  insignificance  of  human 
life, — whatever  may  be  attempted  to  threaten  or  alarm  a  soul  not 
easily  swayed  by  opposition,  or  awed  or  intimidated  by  mcMiace, 
— a  stout  heart  and  a  steady  eye,  that  can  survey',  unmoved  and 
undaunted,  any  mere  personal  perils  that  assail  this  poor,  tran- 
sient, perishing  frame, — I  may,  without  disparagement,  compare 
wifli  other  men. 

'  See  BiogrnphiKil  Sketch,  p.  848. 


PUCLIC    VIIITUE.  42) 

*?.  But  there  is  a  sort  of  courage,  which,  I  frankly  confess  it 
I  do  not  possess, — a  boldness  to  which  I  dare  not  aspire,  a  valor 
which  I  can  not  covet.  I  can  not  lay  myself  down  in  the  way 
of  the  welfare  and  happiness  of  my  country.  That  I  can  not,  1 
Lav.e  not  the  courage  to  do.  I  can  not  interpose  the  power  with 
whicli  I  may  be  invested — a  power  conferred,  not  for  my  per- 
gonal benefit,  nor  for  my  ag'grandlzement,  but  for  my  country's 
good — to  check  her  onward  march  to  greatness  '4nd  glory.  I 
have  not  courage  enough.     I  am  too  cowardly  for  that. 

3.  I  would  not,  I  dare  not,  in  the  exercise  of  such  a  trust,  lie 
down,  and  place  my  body  across  the  path  that  leads  my  country 
to  prosperity  and  happiness.  This  is  a  sort  of  courage  widely 
different  from  that  which  a  man  may  display  in  his  private  con- 
duct and  personal  relations.  Personal  or  private  courage  is  to- 
tally distinct  from  that  higher  and  nobler  courage  which  prompts 
the  patriot  to  offer  himself  a  voluntary  sacrifice  to  his  country's 
good. 

4.  Apprehensions  of  the  imputation  of  the  want  of  firmness 
sometimes  impel  us  to  perform  rash  and  inconsiderate  acts.  It 
is  the  greatest  courage  to  be  able  to  bear  the  imputation  of  the 
want  of  courage.  But  pride,  vanity,  egotism,  so  unamiable  and 
offensive  in  private  life,  are  vices  which  partake  of  the  character 
of  crimes,  in  the  conduct  of  public  affairs.  The  unfortunate  vic- 
tim of  these  passions  can  not  see  beyond  the  little,  petty,  con- 
temptible circle  of  his  own  personal  interests.  All  his  thoughts 
are  withdrawn  from  his  country,  and  concentrated  on  his  con- 
sistency, his  finnness,  himself. 

5.  The  high,  the  exalted,^  the  sublime  emotions  of  a  patriot- 
ism, which,  soaring  toward  heaven,  rises  far  above  all  mean,  low, 
or  selfish  things,  and  is  absorbed  by  one  soul-transporting  thought 
of  the  good  and  the  glory  of  one's  country,  are  never  felt  in  his 
impenetrable  bosom.  That  patriotism,  which,  catching  its  in- 
spii-ations  from  the  immortal  God,  and  leaving  at  an  immeasura- 
able  distance  below  all  lesser,  groveling,  personal  interests  and 
feelings,  animates  and  prompts  to  deeds  of  self-sacrifice,  of  valor, 
of  devotion,  and  of  death  itself, — that  is  public  virtue ;  that  is 
the  noblest,  the  sublimest,  of  all  public  virtues.       Henry  Clay. 

Hknry  Clay,  a  distinsfuished  statesman  oftlie  United  States,  was  born  at  the 
Sirt^kes,  Hanover  county,  Virginia,  on  the  I'ith  of  April.  1777.    His  father,  e 


422  NAriuNAL    FII'Mli    KKADEK. 

clerjfynian,  ilied  in  Jitfl,  and  Henry  acquired  the  rudiments  of  an  education  at 
a  log  school  iiouse.  At  an  early  age  he  became  clerk  of  the  Court  ol'  Chancery 
in  Kichinoud.  He  commenced  the  study  of  law  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  was 
admitted  to  the  bar  at  the  close  of  one  year,  and  removed  to  Lexington,  Ky., 
where  he  practiced  his  profession  with  great  success.  In  1803  he  was  elected  to 
the  legislature  of  his  State,  and  in  1806  and  1809,  was  appointed  to  fill  vacancies 
in  the  national  senate.  In  1811  he  was  chosen  a  member  of  the  House  of  Repre- 
BCJitatives,  and  was  at  once  elected  speaker,  which  office  /le  retained  until  his 
appointment,  in  January,  1814,  as  one  of  the  c  »mmissioners  to  negotiate  the 
Treaty  of  Ghent  On  his  return  he  was  reelected  to  Congress ;  and,  in  1823, 
was  again  elected  speaker  of  the  House.  During  the  presidency  of  John  Quincv 
Adams  he  was  secretary  of  state.  In  1831  he  weis  elected  United  States  senator 
from  Kentucky,  and  was  soon  after  nominated  a  candidate  for  the  presidency, 
but  was  defeated.  In  1836  he  was  reelected  to  tlie  United  States  Senate,  and 
served  until  1842.  In  1844  he  was  again  nominated  to  the  presidency,  and  again 
defeated.  He  was  returned  to  the  U.  S.  Senate  in  1849,  and  died  on  the  29th  of 
June,  18rt2,  at  the  age  of  75  years.  He  was  ever  an  advocate  of  "  protection  to 
American  industry"  by  a  sufficient  tariff,  and  of  "  internal  improvements."  He 
was  in  favor  of  tlie  war  in  1812,  of  the  recognition  of  the  South  American  re- 
publics, and  of  the  independence  of  Greece.  Some  of  his  noblest  oratorical  efforts 
were  delivered  in  support  of  these  measures.  His  speeches  are  sincere,  impas- 
sioned, and  distinguished  for  their  eminent  practicalness.  Full,  flowing,  sensu- 
ous, his  style  of  oratory  was  modulated  by  a  voice  of  sustained  sweetness  and 
power,  and  a  heart  of  chivalrous  courtesy.  His  life  and  speeches,  compiled  and 
edited  by  Mallory,  in  two  volumes,  8vo.,  appeared  in  1843  ;  and  his  "  Life  and 
rimes,"  and  entire  works,  by  Calvin  Colton,  have  since  been  published  in 
New  York. 


137.  "Washington's  Sword  and  Fkanklin's  Staff.^ 

THE  s?t'ord  of  Washington !  The  staff  of  Franklin  !  Oh,  Sir, 
what  associations  are  linked  in  adamant  with  these  names  I 
Washington,  whose  sword  was  never  drawn  but  in  the  cause  of 
his  country,  and  never  sheathed  when  wielded  in  his  country's 
cause !  Franklin,  the  philosopher  of  the  thunderbolt,  the  print- 
ing-press, and  the  plowshare !  What  names  are  these  in  the 
scanty  catalogue  of  the  benefactors  of  human  kind !  Washing- 
ton and  Franklin  !  What  other  two  men,  whose  lives  belong  to 
the  eighteenth  century  of  Christendom,  have  left  a  deeper  im- 
pression of  themselves  upon  the  age  in  which  they  lived,  and 
upon  all  after  time  ? 

2.  Washington,  the  warrior  and  the  legislator !  In  war,  con- 
tending, by  the  wager  of  battle,  for  the  independence  of  his 
country,  and  for  the  freedom  of  the  hunmn  race,- -ever  mauifest- 

'  From  an  address  in  the  U.  S.  House  of  Kepresentatives,  on  tb }  re 
ceptiou  of  these  memorials  by  Congress. 


433 

Ing,  amidst  its  horrors,  by  precept  and  by  example,  liis  reverence 
for  the  laws  of  peace,  and  for  the  tenderest  sympathies  of  hu- 
manity ;  in  peace,  soothing  the  ferocious  spirit  of  discord,  among 
his  own  countrymen,  into  harmony  and  union,  and  giving  to 
that  very  s«/;ord,  now  presented  to  his  countiy,  a  charm  more 
potent  than  that  attributed,  in  ancient  times,  to  the  lyre  of  Or- 
pheus." 

3.  Franklin !  The  mechanic  of  his  own  fortune ;  teaching,  in 
early  youth,  under  the  shackles  of  indigence,  the  way  to  wealth, 
and,  in  the  shade  of  obscurity,  the  path  to  greatness;  in  the  ma- 
turity of  manhood,  disarming  the  thunder  of  its  terrors,  the  light- 
ning of  its  fatal  blast ;  and  wresting  from  the  tyrant's  hand  the 
still  more  afflictive  scepter  of  oppression  :  while  descending  into 
the  vale  of  years,  traversing  the  Atlantic  Ocean,  braving,  in  the 
dead  of  winter,  the  battie  and  the  breeze,  bearing  in  his  hand 
the  charter  of  Independence,  which  he  had  contributed  to  form, 
and  tendering,  from  the  self-created  Nation  to  the  mightiest 
monarchs  of  Europe,  the  olive-branch  of  peace,  the  mercurial 
wand  of  commerce,  and  the  amulet  of  protection  and  safety  to 
the  man  of  peace,  on  the  pathless  ocean,  from  the  inex'orable 
cruelty  and  merciless  rapacity  of  war. 

4.  And,  finally,  in  the  last  stage  of  life,  with  fourscore  winters 
upon  his  head,  under  the  torture  of  an  incurable  disease,  return- 
ing to  his  native  land,  closing  his  days  as  the  chief  magistrate  of 
his  adopted  commonwealth,  after  contributing  by  his  counsels, 
under  the  presidency  of  Washington,  and  recording  his  name, 
under  the  sanction  of  devout  prayer,  invoked  by  him  to  Gvd,  to 
that  Constitution  under  the  authority  of  which  we  are  here  as- 
sembled, as  the  Representatives  of  the  North  American  People, 
to  receive,  in  their  name  and  for  them,  these  venerable  relics  of 
the  wise,  the  valiant,  and  the  good  founders  of  our  great  con- 
federated Republic — these  sacred  symbols  of  our  golden  age. 

5.  May  they  be  deposited  among  the  archives  of  our  goveru- 

^  Orpheus,  a  mythical  personage,  was  regarded  by  the  Greeks  as  the 
.nost  celebrated  of  the  early  poets  who  lived  before  the  time  of  Homkr. 
Presented  with  tl)e  lyre  of  Ai'ollo,  and  instructed  by  the  Jluses  in  its 
use,  he  enclumtod  with  its  music  not  only  tlie  wild  beasts,  but  the  trees 
and  rocks  upon  Olympus,  so  that  they  moved  from  their  places  to  fol- 
h)w  the  sound  of  liis  golden  harp. 


424  NATIONAL   FIFTH   KEADER. 

ment !  x\nd  maj  every  American,  who  shall  hereafter  behold 
them,  ejaculate  a  mingled  offering  of  praise  to  that  Supreme 
Kuler  of  the  Universe,  by  whose  tender  mercies  oar  Union  lias 
been  hitherto  preserved,  through  all  the  vicissitudes  and  revolu- 
tions of  this  turbulent  world ;  and  of  prayer  for  the  continuance 
of  these  blessings,  by  the  dispensations  of  Providence,  to  our  be- 
hoved country,  from  age  to  age,  till  time  shall  be  no  more ! 

J.  Q.  Adams. 

John  Quincy  Adams,  a  distinguished  American  statesman  and  scholar,  son  of 
John  Adams,  the  second  president  of  the  United  Steites,  was  born  at  Braintree, 
Massachusetts,  on  the  11th  of  July,  1767.  He  was  cradled  in  the  Revolution, 
and  when  but  nine  years  old  heard  the  first  reading  of  the  Declaration  of  Inde- 
pendence from  the  old  State  House  in  Boston.  His  early  education  devolved 
principally  on  his  noble  and  accomplished  mother.  In  1778,  in  his  eleventh  year, 
he  accompanied  his  father  on  his  mission  to  France  ;  and  during  that  and  the 
following  year  he  was  at  school  m  Paris.  In  1780  he  entered  the  public  school 
of  Amsterdam,  and  subsequently  the  University  of  Leyden.  In  1781  ho  was 
made  private  secretary  to  the  Hon.  Francis  Dana,  Minister  to  Russia.  He 
joined  his  father  in  Holland  in  1783,  and  returned  home  in  1785.  He  entered  an 
advanced  class  at  Harvard,  and  took  his  degree  in  17?7,  the  year  after  his  ad- 
mission. In  1790  he  was  admitted  to  the  bar,  and  commenced  the  practice  of 
law  at  Boston,  which  he  continued,  varying  his  occupation  by  communications 
for  the  *' Centinel,"  signed  Pnblicola  and  Marcellus,  until  his  appointment  as 
Minister  to  the  Hague,  in  1794,  by  Washington.  He  was  elected  to  the  State 
Senate  in  1801,  and  in  180:)  a  member  of  the  Senate  of  the  United  States,  and  sat 
until  1808.  He  had  previously,  in  1806,  been  appointed  professor  of  rhetoric  in 
Harvard,  and  continued  the  discharge  of  his  duties  until  his  resignation,  in  1809, 
to  accept  the  mission  to  Russia,  offered  him  by  Madison.  He  published  his  col- 
lege lectures,  in  two  octavo  volumes,  in  1810.  He  was  called  from  his  brilliant 
Russian  diplomatic  career  in  1815,  to  aid  in  negotiating  the  treaty  of  peace  with 
England  at  Ghent,  and  was  appointed  minister  to  that  country  in  the  same  year. 
In  1817  he  returned  home,  was  appointed  secretary  of  state  by  Monroe,  and  re- 
mained in  that  office  eight  years,  wheu  he  was  himself  chosen  to  the  presidency. 
He  remained  in  office  one  term,  and  was  immediately  after  elected  a  member 
of  the  House  of  Representatives  fr-in  his  native  State,  a  position  which  he  retain- 
ed till  his  death.  In  the  sixty-tlfth  year  of  active  public  service,  he  died  in  the 
capitol  at  W  ashington— in  the  scene  of  his  chief  triumphs— suddenly,  on  tlip  23d 
of  February,  1848.  His  last  words  were,  "  This  is  the  end  of  earth— I  am  con- 
tent." Through  his  long  and  active  political  career,  Mr.  Adams  retained  a 
fondness  for  literature.  He  was,  altogetlier,  one  of  the  most  remarkable  men  ol 
this  century.  His  various  and  voluminous  works  exhibit  a  marked  rationality 
and  a  wis«Jom  which  astonishes  by  its  universality  and  profoundnesc 


138.  A  Forest  Kook. 

1.    A    NOOK  within  the  forest;  overhead 

I±.  The  branches  arch,  and  shape  a  pleasant  bower, 
Breaking  white  cloud,  blue  sky,  and  sunshine  bright, 


A   FOKEST   NOOK.  i25 

Into  pure  ivory  and  sapphire  spots, 
And  flecks  of  gold  ;  a  soft  cool  emerald  tint 
Colors  the  air,  as  though  the  delicate  leaves 
Emitted  self-born  light.     What  splendid  walls 
And  what  a  gorgeous  roof  carved  by  the  hand 
Of  o-lorious  Nature ! 

o 

2.  Here  the  spruce"  thrusts  in 

Its  bristling  plume,  tipp'd  with  its  pale-green  points ; 

The  scallop'd  beech  leaf,  and  the  birch's,  cut 

Into  firm  rugged  edges,  interlace : 

While  here  and  there,^  through'"  clefts,  the  laurel  lifts 

Its  snowy  chalices  half-brimm'd  with  dew, 

As  though  to  hoard  it  for  the  haunting*  elves 

The  moonlight  calls  to  this  their  festal  hall. 

A  thick,  rich,  grassy^  carpet  clothes  the  earth,' 

Sprinkled  with  autumn  leaves.     The  fern^  displays 

Its  fluted  wreath,  beaded  beneafh  with  drops 

Of  richest  brown  ;  the  wild-rose  spreads  its  breast 

Of  delicate  pink,  and  the  o'erhanging  fii 

Has  dropp'd  its  dark,  long  cone. 

3.  The  scorching  glare* 
Without,  makes  this  green  nest  a  grateful  haunt 

For  summer's  radiant  things  ;  the  butterfly 

Fluttering  within  and  resting  on  some  flower. 

Fans  his  rich  velvet  form ;  the  toiling  bee 

Shoots  by,  with  sounding  hum  and  mist-like  wings ; 

The  robin  perches'"  on  the  bending  spray 

With  shrill,  quick  chirp;"  and  like  a  flake  of  fire 

The  redbird  seeks  the  shelter  of  the  leaves. 

And  now  and  then  a  flutter  overhead 

In  the  thick  green,  betrays  some  wandering  wing 

Coming  and  going,  yet  conceal'd  from  sight. 

A  shrill,  loud  outcry — on  yon  highest  bough 

Sits  the  gray  squirrel,"^  in  his  burlesque  wrath'^ 

Stamping  and  chattering  fiercely  :  now  he  drops 

» K5of.— '  Spruce  (spr5s) .— '  There  (th^r).— *  Through  (thrfl) .—"  HfiMnt'- 
ing.— *Grass' y.— '  Earth  (erth).— "  F^rn.— "  Gl&re.— *'-  F^rch' es.- -"Chirp 
(chSrp).— "  Squirrel  (skwSr'rel).— "Wrath. 


426  NATIONAL    HlTIl    KKAOKK. 

A  boarded  nut,  then  at  my  smiling  gaze 
Buries  himself  within  the  Ibliiige. 

4.  The  insect  tribe  are  here  :  the  ant  toils  on 
Wifli  its  white  burden ;  in  its  netted  web 
Gray  glistening  o'er  the  bush,  the  spider  lurks,* 
A  close  crouch'd  ball,  out-darting  as  a  hum 
Tells  its  trapp'd  prey,  and  looping  quick  its  threads, 
Chains  into  helplessness  the  buzzing  wings. 
The  wood-tick  taps  its  tiny  muffled  drum 
To  the  shrill  cricket-fife,  and  swelling  loud. 
The  grasshopper  its  swelling  bugle  winds. 
Those  breaths  of  Nature,  the  light  fluttering  airs," 
Like  gentle  respirations,  come  and  go. 
Lift  on  its  crimson  stem  the  maple  leaf. 
Displaying  its  white  lining  underneath, 
And  sprinkle  from  the  tree-tops  golden  rain 
Of  sunshine  on  the  velvet  sward  below. 

5    Such  nooks'  as  this  are  common  in  the  woods : 
And  all  these  sights  and  sounds  the  commonest 
In  Nature,  when  she  wears*  her  summer  prime. 
Yet  by  them  pass*  not  lightly :  to  the  wise 
They  tell  the  beauty  and  the  harnr.ony 
Of  e'en  the  lowliest  things  that  God  has  made ; 
That  his  familiar  earth  and  sky  are  full 
Of  his  ineffable  power  and  majesty ; 
That  in  the  humble  objects,  seen  too  6ft 
To  be  regarded,  is  such  wondrous  grace. 
The  art  of  man  is  vain  to  imitate ; 
That  the  low  flower  our  careless  foot^  treads  down 
Is  a  rich  shrine  of  incense  delicate, 
And  radiant  beauty,  and  that  God  hath  form'd 
All,  from  the  cloud-wrcath'd  mountain,  to  the  grain 
Of  silver  sand  the  bubbling  spring  casts'"  up, 
"Wifli  deepest  forethought  and  severest  care.^ 
And  thus  these  noteless  lovely  things  are  types 
Of  his  perfection  and  divin'ty.  Street. 

»  Lurks   (l6rks).— 'Airs  (irz).—»  N6oks.—*  Wears   (w&rz) .— •  Pdss 
•Foot  (fut).— '^'d:jt3.-  ''C&re.--»See  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  202. 


l-UKKt^'J      lUhJIS.  427 


139.   Forest  Tiik::s. 

I1IA\'E  paused  more  tlian  once  in  the  wilderness  of  America, 
to  contcm'plate  the  traces  of  some  blast  of  wind,  which 
seemed  to  have  rushed  down  from  the  clouds,  and  ripped  its 
way  through  the  bosom  of  the  woodlands;  rooting  up,  shiver- 
ing, and  splintering  the  stoutest  trees,  and  leaving  a  long  traclv" 
of  desolation.  There  is  something  awful  in  the  vast  havoc  made 
among  these  gigantic  plants ;  and  in  considering  their  magnifi- 
cent remains,  so  rudely  torn  and  mangled,  hurled  down  to  per- 
ish prematurely  on  their  native  soil,  I  was  conscious  of  a  strong 
movement  of  sympathy  with  the  wood-nymphs,  grieving  to  be 
dispossessed  of  their  ancient  habitations. 

2.  I  recollect  also  hearing  a  traveler  of  poetical  temperament, 
expressing  the  kind  of  horror  which  he  felt  in  beholding,  on  the 
banks  of  the  Missouri,  an  oak  of  prodigious  size,  which  had  been 
in  a  manner  overpowered  by  an  enormous  wild  grape-vine.  The 
vine  had  clasped  its  huge  folds  round  the  trunk,  and  from  thence 
had  wound  about  every  branch  and  twig,  until  the  mighty  tree 
had  withered  in  its  embrace.  It  seemed  like  Laoc'oon'  strug- 
gling ineftectually  in  the  hideous  coils  of  the  monster  Python.' 
It  was  the  lion  of  trees  perishing  in  the  embraces  of  a  vegetable 
Boa. 

3.  I  am  fond  of  listening  to  the  conversation  of  English  gen- 
tlemen on  rural  concerns,  and  of  noticing  with  what  taste  and 
discrimination,  and  what  strong,  unaffected  interest,  they  will 
discuss  topics,  which,  in  other  countries,  are  abandoned  to  mere 
woodmen   or  rustic   cultivators.      I  have   heard  a  noble   earl 

*  La  6c'  o  in,  a  Trojan,  and  a  priest  of  Apollo,  who  tried  to  dissuade 
his  countrymen  from  drawing  into  the  city  the  wooden  horse  of  the 
Greeks,  which  finally  caused  the  overthrow  of  Troy.  When  preparing 
to  sacrifice  a  bull  to  Neptune,  two  fearful  serpents  suddenly  rushed  upon 
him  and  his  two  sons  and  strangled  them.  His  death  formed  the  sub- 
ject of  many  ancient  works  of  art ;  and  a  magnificent  group,  represent- 
ing the  father  and  his  two  sons  entwined  by  the  two  serpents,  is  still 
extant,  and  preserved  in  the  Vatican,  at  Rome. — Tython,  a  celebrated 
berpent  that  lived  in  the  caves  of  Mount  Parnassus,  but  was  slain  by 
Apollo,  who  founded  the  Pythian  games  in  commemoration  of  his  vic- 
tory, and  received,  in  consequence,  the  surname  PyUiius.  This,  how- 
rrver,  was  not  one  of  the  serpents  that  destroyed  Laocoox. 


428  NATIONAL    FIFfH     RKADP:R. 

descant'  on  park  and  forest  scenery,  with  the  science  and  feeling 
of  a  painter,  lie  dwelt  on  the  shape  and  beauty  of  particular 
trees  on  his  estate  with  as  much  pride  and  technical  precision 
as  though  he  had  been  discussing  the  merits  of  statues  in  his 
collection.  I  found  that  he  had  gone  considerable  distances  to 
examine  trees  which  were  celebrated  among  rural  amateurs' ; 
for  it  seems  that  trees,  like  horses,  have  their  established  points 
of  excellence,  and  that  there  are  some  in  England  which  enjoy 
very  extensive  celebrity  from  being  perfect  in  their  kind. 

4.  There  is  something  nobly  simple  and  pure  in  such  a  taste. 
It  argues,  I  think,  a  sweet  and  generous  nature,  to  have  this 
strong  relish  for  the  beauties  of  vegetation,  and  this  friendship 
for  the  hardy  and  glorious  sons  of  the  forest.  There  is  a  grand- 
cur  of  thought  connected  wifli  this  part  of  rural  economy.  It  is, 
if  I  may  be  allowed  the  figure,  the  heroic  line  of  husbandry.  It 
is  worthy  of  liberal,  and  free-born,  and  aspiring  men.  He  who 
plants  an  oak  looks  forward  to  future  ages,  and  plants  for  pos- 
terity. Nothing  can  be  less  selfish  than  this.  He  can  not  ex- 
pect to  sit  in  its  shade  nor  enjoy  its  shelter;  but  he  exults  in  the 
ideii  that  the  acorn  which  he  has  buried  in  the  earth  shall  grow 
up  into  a  lofty  pile,  and  shall  keep  on  flourishing,  and  increas- 
ing, and  benefiting  mankind,  long  after  he  shall  have  ceased  to 
tread  his  paternal  fields. 

5.  Indeed,  it  is  the  nature  of  such  occupations  to  lift  the 
thought  above  mere  worldliness.  As  the  leaves  of  trees  are  said 
to  absorb  all  noxious  qualities  of  the  air,  and  breathe  forth  a 
purer  atmosphere,  so  it  seems  to  me  as  if  they  drew  from  us  all 
sordid  and  angry  passions,  and  breathed  forth  peace  and  philan- 
thropy. There  is  a  serene  and  settled  majesty  in  woodland 
scenery  that  enters  into  the  soul,  and  dilates  and  elevates  it,  and 
fills  it  with  noble  inclinations.  The  ancient  and  hereditary 
groves,  too,  that  embower  this  island,  are  most  of  them  full  of 
story.  They  are  haunted  by  the  recollections  of  the  great 
spirits  of  past  ages,  who  have  sought  for  relaxation  among  them, 
from  the  tumult  of  arms,  or  the  toils  of  state,  or  have  woDcd  the 
muse  bencafh  their  shade. 

6.  It  is  becoming,  then,  for  the  high  and  gencro  is  spirits  of 
an  ancient  nation  to  cherish  these  sacred  groves  that  surround 
their  ancestral  mansions,  and  to  perpetuate  them  to  their  do 


fuj:i;st  tkeks.  429 

Bcendants.  Brouglit  up,  jis  I  have  been,  in  republican  habits 
a,nd  principles,  I  can  feel  nothing  of  the  servile  reverence  for 
titled  rank,  merely  because  it  is  titled.  But  I  trust  I  am  neither 
churl  nor  bigot  in  my  creed.  I  do  see  and  feel  how  hereditary 
distinction,  when  it  falls  to  the  lot  of  a  generous  mind,  may  ele- 
vate that  mind  into  true  nobility. 

7.  It  is  one  of  the  effects  of  hereditary  rank,  when  it  falls  thus 
happily,  that  it  multiplies  the  duties,  and,  as  it  were,  extends  the 
existence  of  the  possessor.  He  docs  not  feel  himself  a  mere  in- 
dividual link  in  creation,  responsible  only  for  his  own  brief  term 
of  being.  He  carries  back  his  existence  in  proud  recollection, 
and  he  extends  it  forward  in  honorable  anticipation.  He  lives 
with  his  ancestry,  and  he  lives  with  his  posterity.  To  b5th  docs 
he  consider  himself  involved  in  deep  responsibilities.  As  he  has 
received  much  from  those  that  have  gone  before,  so  he  feels 
bound  to  transmit  much  to  those  who  are  to  come  after  him. 

8.  His  domestic  undertakings  seem  to  imply  a  longer  exist- 
ence than  those  of  ordinary  men.  None  are  so  apt  to  build  and 
plant  for  future  centuries,  as  noble-spirited  men  who  have  re- 
ceived their  heritages  from  foregoing  ages.  I  can  easily  imagine, 
therefore,  the  fondness  and  pride  with  which  I  have  noticed 
English  gentlemen,  of  generous  temperaments,  but  high  aristo- 
cratic feelings,  contem'plating  those  magnificent  trees,  which 
rise  like  towers  and  pyramids  from  the  midst  of  their  paternal 
lands.  There  is  an  affinity  between  all  natures,  animate  and  in- 
animate. The  oak,  in  the  pride  and  lustihood  of  its  growth, 
seems  to  me  to  take  its  range  with  the  lion  and  the  eagle,  and 
to  assimilate,  in  the  grandeur  of  its  attributes,  to  heroic  and  in- 
tellectual man. 

9.  Wifli  its  mighty  pillar  rising  straight  and  direct  toward 
heaven,  bearing  up  its  leafy  honors  from  the  impurities  of 
earth,  and  supporting  them  aloft  in  free  air  and  glorious  sun- 
shine, it  is  an  emblem  of  what  a  true  nobleman  should  he ;  a 
refuge  for  the  weak, — a  shelter  for  the  oppressed, — a  defence  for 
the  defenceless;  warding  off  from  them  the  peltings  of  the 
storm,  or  the  scorching  rays  of  arbitrary  power.  He  who  is 
i/m-,  is  an  ornament  and  a  blessing  to  his  native  land.  He  who 
is  otherwise^  abuses  his  eminent  advantages ; — abuses  the  grand- 
eur and  prosperity  which  he  has  drawn  from  the  b(>«oin  o'(  his 


i*J«>  NATIONAI.    Fli-Tli    JilOADi  II. 

couiitiy.  Should  tempests  arise,  and  he  be  laid  prostrate  by  the 
storm,  who  would  mourn  over  his  fall?  Should  he  be  borne 
down  by  the  oppressive  hand  of  power,  who  would  murmur  at 
his  fate  ? — "  Why  cumbereth  he  the  ground  ?"  Irvino  ' 


140.  God's  Fikst  Temi'les. 

1.  rnilE  groves  were  God's  first  temples.     Ere  man  learri;d 
-A-   To  hew  the  shaft,  and  lay  the  architrave,'^ 

And  spread  the  roof*  above  them, — ere  he  framed 

The  lofty  vault,  to  gather  and  roll  back 

The  sound  of  anthems, — in  the  darkling  wood, 

Amidst  the  cool  and  silence,  he  knelt  down 

And  offer'd  to  the  Mightiest  solemn  thanks 

And  supplication.     For  his  simple  heart 

Might  not  resist  the  sacred  influences. 

That,  from  the  stilly  twilight  of  the  place. 

And  from  the  gray  old  trunks,  that,  high  in  heaven, 

Mingled  their  mossy  boughs,  and  from  the  sound 

Of  the  invisible  breath,  that  sway'd  at  once 

All  their  green  tops,  stole  over  him,  and  bow'd 

His  spirit  wifli  the  thought  of  boundless  Power 

And  inaccessible  Majesty.     Ah  !  why 

Should  we,  in  the  world's  riper  years,  neglect 

God's  ancient  sanctuarids,  and  adore 

Only  among  the  crowd,  and  under  roofs 

That  our  fi-ail  hands  have  raised?     Let  me,  at  least, 

Here,  in  the  shadow  of  this  aged  wood. 

Oiler  one  hymn  ;  thrice  happy,  if  it  find 

A.cceptance  in  his  ear. 

2.  Father,  thy  hand 
Hath  rear'd  these  venerable  colunms :  thou 

Didst  weave  this  verdant  roof.     Thou  didst  look  down 
Upon  the  naked  earth,  and,  forthwith,  rose 
All  these  fair  ranks  of  trees.     Thev  in  thy  sun 


See  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  114.— '  Architrave  (drk'itriv),  in  archi- 
tecture, one  of  the  parts  of  an  order  above  the  column  which  lies  imme- 
diately up!»n  it.— 'Roof. 


ood's  first  temples.  ;I:31 

Budded,  and  shook  tlieir  green  leaves  in  thy  breeze, 
And  shot  toward  heaven.     The  century-living  crow, 
Whose  birth  was  in  their  tops,  grew  old  and  died 
Among  their  branches ;  till,  at  last,  they  stood, 
As  now  they  stand,  massy,  and  tall,  and  dark, 
Fit  shrine  for  humble  worshiper  to  hold 
Communion  with  his  Maker. 

3.  Here  are  seen 
No  traces  of  man's  pomp  or  pride ;  no  silks 
Rustle,  no  jewels  shine,  nor  envious  eyes 
Encounter ;  no  fantastic  carvings  show 

The  boast  of  our  vain  race  to  change  the  form 
Of  thy  fair  works.     But  thou  art  here ;  thou  fiU'st 
The  solitude.     Thou  art  in  the  soft  winds 
That  run  along  the  summits  of  these  trees 
In  music ;  thou  art  in  the  cooler  breath, 
That,  from  the  inmost  darkness  of  the  place. 
Comes,  scarcely  felt ;  the  barky  trunks,  the  ground, 
The  fresh,  moist  ground,  are  all  instinct  witli  thee. 

4.  nere  is  continual  worship ;  nature,  here, 
In  the  tranquillity  that  thou  dost  love. 
Enjoys  thy  presence.     Noiselessly,  around, 
From  perch  to  perch,  the  solitary  bird 

Passes;  and  yon  clear  spring,  that,  midst  its  Aerbs, 
Wells  softly  forth,  and  visits  the  slrong  roots 
Of  half  the  mighty  forest,  tells  no  tale 
Of  all  the  good  it  does. 

C.  Thou  hast  not  left 

Thyself  without  a  witness,  in  these  shades, 
Of  thy  perfections.     Grandeur,  strength,  and  gracO; 
Are  here  to  speak  of  thee.     This  mighty  oak — 
By  whose  immovable  stem  I  stand,  and  seem 
Almost  annihilated — not  a  prince. 
In  all  the  proud  old  world  beyond  the  deep, 
E'er  wore  his  crown  as  loftily  as  he 
Wears  tlie  green  coronal  of  leaves,  wifli  which 
Thy  hand  has  graced  him.     Nestled  at  his  root 
Is  beauty,  such  as  blooms  not  in  the  c*lare 


i32  NATIONAL    FIFTH    KEADKK. 

Of  the  broad  sun.    That  delicate  forest  flower 
With  scented  breath,  and  look  so  like  a  smile, 
Seems,  as  it  issues  from  the  shapeless  mold, 
An  emanation  of  the  indwelling  Life, 
A  visible  token  of  the  upholding  Love, 
That  are  the  soul  of  this  wide  universe. 

0.  My  heart  is  awed  within  me,  when  I  think 

Of  the  great  miracle  that  still  goes  on, 
In  silence,  round  me — the  perpetual  work 
Of  thy  creation,  finish'd,  yet  renew'd 
Forever.     Written  on  thy  works,  I  read 
The  lesson  of  thy  own  eternity. 
Lo !  all  grow  old  and  die  :  but  see,  again, 
How,  on  the  faltering  footsteps  of  decay. 
Youth  presses — ever  gay  and  beautiful  youth — 
In  all  its  beautiful  forms.     These  lofty  trees 
Wave  not  less  proudly  that  their  ancestors 
Molder  beneafli  them. 

7.  Oh !  there  is  not  lost 
One  of  earth's  charms :  upon  her  bosom  ySt, 
After  the  flight  of  untold  centuries, 

The  freshness  of  her  far  beginning  lies. 
And  yet  shall  lie.     Life  mocks  the  idle  hate 
Of  his  arch  enemy  Death  ;  yea,  seats  himself 
Upon  the  sepulcher,  and  blooms  and  smiles. 
And  of  the  triumphs  of  his  ghastly  foe 
Makes  his  own  nourishment.     For  he  came  forth 
From  thine  own  bosom,  and  shall  have  no  end. 

8.  There  have  been  holy  men,  who  hid  themselves 
Deep  in  the  woody  wilderness,  and  gave 

Their  lives  to  thought  and  prayer,  till  they  outlived 
The  generation  born  wifh  them,  nor  seem'd 
Less  aged  than  the  hoary  trees  and  rocks 
Around  them ;  and  there  have  been  holy  men. 
Who  deem'd  it  were  not  well  to  pass  life  thu*?. 
But  let  me  Cften  to  these  solitudes 
Retire,  and,  in  thy  presence,  reassure 
My  feeble  virtue.     Here,  its  enemies, 


TKUST    IN    GOD.  48«3 

The  passions,  at  thy  plainer  footsteps,  shrink, 
And  trembJe,  and  are  still. 

0  God !  when  thou 
Dost  scare  the  world  wifli  tempests,  set  on  fire 
The  heavens  with  falling  thunderbolts,  or  fill, 
With  all  the  waters  of  the  firmament, 
The  swift,  dark  whirlwind,  that  uproots'  the  woods, 
And  drowns  the  villages ;  when,  at  thy  call, 
Uprises  the  great  deep,  and  throws  himself 
Upon  the  continent,  and  overwhelms 
Its  cities ; — who  forgets  not,  at  the  sight 
Of  these  tremendous  tokens  of  thy  power. 
His  pride,  and  lays  his  strifes  and  follies  by ! 
Oh  !  from  these  sterner  aspects  of  thy  face 
Spare  me  and  mine ;  nor  let  us  need  the  wrata* 
Of  the  mad,  unchain'd  elements,  to  teach 
Who  rules  them.     Be  it  ours  to  meditate. 
In  these  calm  shades,  thy  milder  majesty. 
And  to  the  beautiful  order  of  thy  works 
Learn  to  conform  the  order  of  our  lives.  Bktant.* 


I 


141.  Teust  in  God. 
OW  beautiful  this  dome  of  sky ! 


And  the  vast  hills,  in  fluctuation  fix'd 
At  Thy  command,  how  awful !     Shall  the  soul, 
Human  and  rational,  report  of  Thee 
Even  less  than  these  ?     Be  mute  who  will,  who  can, 
Yet  I  will  praise  Thee  wi&  impassion'd  voice : 
My  lips,  that  may  forget  Thee  in  the  crowd, 
Can  not  forget  Thee  here,  where  Thou  hai|t  bailt, 
For  Thy  own  glory,  in  the  wilderness. 

Me  didst  Thou  constitute  a  priest  of  Thine,    \ 
In  such  a  temple  as  we  now  behold 
Rear'd  for  Thy  presence ;  therefore  am  I  bound 
To  worship  here — and  everywhere — as  one 

•UprSpt'.—'WrHtl'  -  »See  Biographical  Sketch  p.  118. 
10 


434  NATIONAl     FlPrH     RKADKK. 

Not  doom'd  to  ignorance,  though  forced  tc  tread, 
From  childhood  up,  the  wa}'s  of  poverty, 
From  unretiectiijg  ignorance  preserved, 
And  from  debasement  rescued.     By  Thy  grace 
The  particle  divine  remain'd  unquench'd ; 
And,  mid  the  wild  weeds  of  a  rugged  soil, 
Thy  bounty  caused  to  flourish  deathless  flowera. 
From  Paradise  transplanted.     Wintry  age 
Impends :  the  frost  will  gather  round  my  heart ; 
And  if  they  wither,  I  am  worse  than  dead. 

3.  Come  labor,  when  the  worn-out  frame  requires 
Perpetual  sabbath  ;  come  disease  and  want. 
And  sad  exclusion  through  decay  of  sense ; 
But  leave  me  unabated  trust  in  Thee ; 

And  let  Thy  favor,  to  the  end  of  life, 
Inspire  me  wifli  ability  to  seek 
Repose  and  hope  among  eternal  things, 
Father  of  heaven  ani  earth !  and  I  am  rich. 
And  will  possess  my  portion  in  content. 

4,  And  what  are  things  eternal  ? — Powers  depart, 
Possessions  vanish,  and  opinions  change. 
And  passions  hold  a  fluctuating  seat : 

But  by  the  storms  of  circumstance  unshaken, 

And  subject  neither  to  eclipse  nor  wane. 

Duty  exists; — immutably  survive. 

For  our  support,  the  measures  and  the  forms. 

Which  an  abstract  Intelligence  supplies; 

Whose  kingdom  is  where  time  and  space  are  not; 

Of  other  converse,  which  mind,  soul,  and  heart, 

Do,  wifli  united  urgency,  require. 

What  more,  that  may  not  perish  ? 

6,  Thou,  dread  Source, 

Pnme,  self-existing  Cause  and  End  of  all. 
That,  in  the  scale  of  being,  fill  their  place. 
Above  all  human  rcunon,  or  below. 
Set  and  sustaiuM ; — Thou,  who  didst  wrap  the  cloud 
Of  infancy  around  u^,  tluit  Thyself, 
Therein.  wi6i  our  simplicity  awhile, 


TKUS'l     IN    GOD.  i35 

Might'st  hold,  on  earlh,  communion  undisturb'd, — 
Who,  from  the  anarchy  of  dreaming  sleep, 
Or  from  its  death-like  void,  with  punctual  care, 
And  touch  as  gentle  as  the  morning  light, 
Restorest  us,  daily,  to  the  powers  of  sense, 
And  reason's  steadfast  rule, — Thou,  Thou  alone. 
Art  everlasting. 

8    This  universe  shall  pass  away, — a  frame 

Glorious !  because  the  shadow  of  Thy  might, — 
A  step,  or  link,  for  intercourse  wifh  Thee. 
Ah !  if  the  time  must  come,  in  which  my  feet 
No  more  shall  stray  where  meditation  leads, 
By  flowing  stream,  through  wood,  or  craggy  wild, 
Loved  haunts  like  these,  the  unimprison'd  mind 
May  yet  have  scope  to  range  among  her  own, 
Her  thoughts,  her  images,  her  bogh  desires. 

7.  If  the  dear  faculty  of  sight  should  fail, 
Still  it  may  be  allow'd  me.  to  remember 
What  visionary  powers  of  eye  and  soul, 
In  youth,  were  mine ;  when  station'd  on  the  top 
Of  some  huge  hill,  expectant,  I  beheld 
The  sun  rise  up,  from  distant  climes  return'd, 
Darkness  to  chase,  and  sL'^.ep,  and  bring  the  day, 
His  bounteous  gift !  or  saw  him,  toward  the  deep 
Sink,  wifh  a  retinue  of  flaming  clouds 
Attended !     Then  my  spirit  was  entranced' 
With  joy  exalted  to  beatitude  f 
The  measure  of  my  soul  was  fill' I  with  bliss, 
And  holiest  love ;  as  earth,  sea,  air,  with  light, 
With  pomp,  with  glory,  with  magnificence ! 

Wordsworth. 

William  Wordsworth,  the  greatest  of  metaphysical  poets,  and  one  of  tlie 
purest  and  most  blameless  of  men,  was  born  at  Cockermouth,  Cumberland 
county,  England,  on  the  7th  of  April,  1770.  He  read  much  in  boyhood,  and 
wrote  some  verses.  He  received  his  early  education  at  the  endowed  school  of 
Hawkshead ;  entered  St.  Johns  College,  Cambridge,  in  1787 ,  and  though  he 
disliked  the  system  of  the  university,  and  attended  little  to  the  studies  of  the 

Entranced  (en  trSnst'),  enchanted;  put  into  an  ecstasy. — 'Beilt'i- 
tude,  highest  happiness  :  blessedness  ;  glory. 


436  NATIONAL    FIPTH    RKADEK. 

'place,  graduated  with  his  degree  of  B,  A.  in  1791.  In  the  close  of  the  same  year 
he  went  to  France,  where  he  passed  nearly  a  year ;  and  there  he  wrote  the  poem 
called  "  Descriptive  Sketches,"  which,  with  "  The  Evening  Walk,"  was  pul> 
lished  in  ITSi.'J.  hi  1795  he  received  a  legacy  of  XDOO  from  his  friend,  Uaisley 
Calveht,  and  at  the  close  of  the  same  hegan  to  live  with  his  sister,  tlieir  first 
residence  being  at  Racedown,  Dorsetshire.  He  here  made  the  acquaintance  of 
(^OLEiviDGE,  and  wrote  many  of  the  fine  passages  that  afterward  appeared  in 
•■  The  Excursion."  In  the  autumn  of  1798  he  published  the  first  edition  of  his 
"  Lyrical  Ballads,"  and  then  went  to  Germany  with  his  sister  and  Coleridge; 
and,  the  parly  separating.  Miss  Wordswoktu  antl  her  brother  passed  the  winter 
at  Goslar,  in  Hanover.  Here  were  written  "  Lucy  Gray"  and  several  beautiful 
pieces.  His  long  residence  among  tlie  lakes  of  his  native  district  began  imme- 
diately after  his  return  to  England.  His  second  volume  of  "  Lyrical  Ballails" 
appeared  at  the  close  of  1800,  with  a  reprint  of  the  first.  In  1802  lie  married 
Mary  Hutchinson,  of  Penrith,  to  whose  amiability  his  poems  pay  warm  and 
beautiful  tributes.  In  the  spring  of  1813,  after  various  changes  of  residence,  he 
took  up  his  abode  at  Rydal  Mount,  two  miles  from  Grasmere,  which  was  his 
home  for  thirty-seven  years,  and  the  scene  of  his  death.  There,  too,  he  was  ap- 
Dointed  distributor  of  stamps  for  Westmoreland  ;  an  oflice  vf  liicli  was  executed 
by  a  clerk,  and  yielded  about  £500  a  j-^ear.  In  the  summer  of  1814  was  publish- 
ed "The  Excursion,"  a  poem  which,  if  judged  by  its  best  passages,  without  re- 
gard to  design,  has  hardly  an  equal  in  our  language.  The  following  year  ap 
peared  "  The  White  Doe  of  Rylstone,"  a  work  which,  while  it  evinces  the  au 
thor's  incapacity  to  plan  or  conduct  a  sustained  narrative,  is  instinct  with  dreamy 
loveliness.  From  his  fiftieth  to  his  eightieth  year  tlie  poet  traveled  much,  suf- 
fered a  great  deal,  and  wrote  but  little.  In  1842  he  resigned  his  distributor- 
ship in  favor  of  one  of  his  two  sons,  and  received  from  Sir  Robert  Peel  a  pen- 
sion of  jC.'JOO  a  year.  In  1843  he  was  appointed  poet-laureate.  He  died  on  the 
'23d  of  April,  1850. 

142.  Scene  from  the  Lady  of  Lyons.' 
Melnotte's  cottage — Widow  hustling  about.  A  table  spread 
for  supjier. 
Widow,  So — I  think  that  looks  very  neat.  He  sent  me  a  line, 
so  blotted  that  I  can  scarcely  read  it,  to  say  he  would  be  here 
almost  immediately.  She  must  have  loved  him  well  indeed,  to 
have  forgotten  his  birth  ;  for  though  he  was  introduced  to  her  in 
disguise,  he  is  too  honorable  not  to  have  revealed  to  her  the 
artifice  which  her  love  only  could  forgive.  Well,  I  do  not  won- 
der at  it ;  for  though  my  son  is  not  a  prince,  he  ought  to  be  one, 
and  that's  almost  as  good.  [^Knock  at  the  door.^^  Ah!  hero 
they  are. 

Claude  Melnoite.  who  had  received  many  in(llu:nities  to  his  slight- 
ed It)ve,  from  Pallink,  married  her  undctr  the  false  appearance  of  an 
Italian  prince.  H«  afterward  repents  his  bitter  revenge  ;  makes  imme- 
diate amends ;  and,  impelled  by  atieotion.  virtue,  and  a  laudable  am- 
bition, finally  oon<)ners  a  position,  and  beconu'S.  in  f.u  t.  I  er  husband. 


SCEi^E    FRv>M    THE    Lx\I)Y    OF    LYONS.  437 

Eriter  Melnotte  and  Pauline. 

*     Widow.  Oh,  my  bo}- — the  pride  of  my  heart ! — welcome,  wel- 
come !     I  beg  pardon,  Ma'am,  but  I  do  love  liim  so ! 

Pauline.  Good  woman,  I  really — Why,  Prince,  what  is  this  ? 
— does  the  old  woman  know  you  ?  Oh,  I  guess  you  have  done 
her  some  service.     Another  proof  of  your  kind  heart,  is  it  not? 

Melnotte.  Of  my  kind  heart,  ay  ! 

Pauline.  So,  you  know  the  prince  ? 

Widow.  Know  him,  Madame  ? — Ah,  I  begin  to  fear  it  is  you 
who  know  him  not ! 

Pauline.  Do  you  think  she  is  mad  ?  Can  we  stay  here,  my 
lord  ?     I  think  there's  something  very  wild  about  her. 

Melnotte.  Madame,  I — No,  I  can  not  tell  her !  My  knees 
knock  together :  what  a  coward  is  a  man  who  has  lost  his 
honor!  Speak  to  her — speak  to  her^ — \to  his  mother] — tell  her 
that — 0  Heaven,  that  I  were  dead ! 

Pauline.  How  confused  he  looks! — this  strange  place — this 
woman — what  can  it  mean  ?  I  half  suspect — Who  are  you, 
Madame  ? — who  are  you  ?  Can't  you  speak  ?  are  you  struck 
dumb  ? 

Widow.  Claude,  you  have  not  deceived  her  ? — Ah,  shame 
upon  you !  I  thought  that,  before  you  went  to  the  altar,  she 
was  to  have  known  all  ? 

Pauline.  All !  what?     My  blood  freezes  in  my  veins! 

Widow.  Poor  ladv  1 — dare  1  tell  her,  Claude? 

[Melnotte  makes  a  sir/n  of  assent. 

Know  you  not  then,  Ma<lame,  that  this  young  man  is  of  poor 
though  honest  parents  ?  Know  you  not  that  you  are  wedded  to 
my  son,  Claude  Melnotte? 

Pauline.  Your  son !  hold!  hold  I  do  not  speak  to  me — [aj^ 
proaches  Melnotte  a7id  lays  her  hand  on  his  arm.]  Is  this  a 
jest  ?  Is  it  ?  I  know  it  is  :  only  speak — one  word — one  look — 
one  smile.  I  can  not  believe — 1,  who  loved  thee  so — I  can  not 
believe  that  thou  art  such  a — No,  I  will  not  wrong  thee  by  a 
harsh  word. — Speak  ! 

Melnotte.  Leave  us — have  pity  on  her,  on  me :  leave  us. 
Widow.  0  Claude !  that  I  should  live  to  see  thee  bowed  by 
shame  !  thee,  of  whom  I  was  so  proud  !  \Exit  Widow 


4:38  NATIONAL    Kli'TH    KEADKR. 

Pauline.  Ilcr  son  I  her  son  ! 

Melnotte.  Now,  lady,  hear  me. 

Pauline.  Hear  thee ! 

i^v,  speak,     ller  son  !  have  fiends  a  parent?     Speak, 
I'hat  thou  mayst  silence  curses — Speak ! 

Meluolte.  No,  curse  me  : 

fhy  curse  would  blast  me  less  than  thy  forgiveness. 

Pauline  [laughing  wildlg].     "This  is  thy  palrice,  where  thj 
perfumed  light 
Steals  through  the  mist  of  alabaster  l^mps, 
And  every  air  is  heavy  with  the  sighs 
Of  orange-groves,  and  music  from  sweet  lutes, 
And  murmurs  of  low  fountains,  that  gush  forth 
r  the  midst  of  roses!"     Dost  thou  like  the  picture? 
This  is  ray  bridal  home,  and  thou  my  bridegroom! 

0  fool ! — 0  dupe ! — O  wretch  ! — I  see  it  all — 
The  by-word  and  the  jeer  of  every  tongue 

In  Lyons !     llast  thou  in  thy  heart  one  touch 
Of  human  kindness?     If  thou  hast,  why,  kill  me, 
And  save  thy  wife  from  madness.     No,  it  can  not. 
It  can  not  be  I  this  is  some  horrid  dream  : 

1  shall  wake  soon.     [Touching  him.']     Art  flesh?  art  man  ?  or  but 
The  shadows  seen  in  sleep? — It  is  too  real. 

What  have  I  done  to  thee — how  sinn'd  against  thee, 
That  thou  shouldst  crush  me  thus  ? 

Melnotte.  Pauline !  by  pride 

Angels  have  fallen  ere  thy  time;  by  pride — 
That  sole  alloy  of  thy  most  lovely  mold — 
The  evil  spirit  of  a  bitter  love. 
And  a  revengeful  heart,  had  power  upon  thee. 
From  my  first  years,  my  soul  was  fill'd  wifti  thee : 
I  saw  thee,  midst  the  fiowers  the  lowly  boy 
Tended,  unmaik'd  by  thee — a  spii'it  of  bloom, 
And  joy,  and  freshness,  as  if  Spring  itself 
Were  made  a  l".ving  thing,  and  wore  thy  shape ! 
I  saw  thee  !  and  the  passionate  heart  of  man 
Enter'd  the  breast  of  the  wild-dreaming  boy  ; 
And  from  that  hour  1  grew — what  to  the  last 
I  shall  be — thine  adorer!     Weil!  this  love, 


SCENE  FROM  THE  LADY  OF  LYONS.         439 

Vaic,  frantic,  guilty,  if  thou  wilt,  became 

A  fountain  of  ambition  and  bright  hope : 

I  thought  of  tales  that  by  the  winter  hearth 

Old  gossips  tell — how  maidens,  sprung  from  kings, 

Have  stoop'd  from  their  high  sphere ;  how  Love,  like  Death, 

Levels  all  ranks,  and  lays-  the  shepherd's  crook 

Beside  the  scepter.     Thus  I  made  my  home 

In  the  soft  palace  of  a  fairy  Future  ! 

My  father  died ;  and  I,  the  peasant-born. 
Was  my  own  lord.    Then  did  I  seek  to  rise 
Out  of  the  prison  of  my  mean  estate ; 
And,  with  such  jewels  as  the  exploring  Mind 
Brings  from  the  caves  of  Knowledge,  buy  my  ransom 
From  those  twin  jailers  of  the  daring  heart — 
Low  Birth  and  iron  Fortune.     Thy  bright  image, 
Glass'd  in  my  soul,  took  all  the  hues  of  glory. 
And  lured  me  on  to  those  inspiring  toils 
By  which  man  masters  men !     For  thee  I  grew 
A  midnio-ht  student  o'er  the  dreams  of  sages : 
For  thee  J  sought  to  borrow  from  each  Grace, 
And  every  Muse,  such  attributes  as  lend 
Ideill  charms  to  Love.     I  thought  of  thee, 
And  Passion  taught  me  poesy — of  thee. 
And  on  the  painter's  canvas  grew  the  life 
Of  beauty ! — Art  became  the  shadow 
Of  the  dear  star-light  of  thy  haunting  eyes ! 
Men  call'd  me  vain — some  mad :  I  heeded  not. 
But  still  toil'd  on — hoped  on — for  it  was  sweet, 
f  not  to  win,  to  feel  more  worthy  thee ! 

Pauline.  Has  he  a  magic  to  exorcise  hate  ? 

Melnotte.  At  last,  in  one  mad  hour,  I  dared  to  pouT 
The  thoughts  that  burst  their  channels  into  song, 
And  sent  them  to  thee, — such  a  tribute,  lady. 
As  beauty  rarely  scorns,  even  from  the  meanest. 
The  name — appended  by  the  burning  heart 
That  long'd  to  show  its  idol  what  bright  things 
It  had  created — yea,  the  enthusiast's  name 
That  should  have  been  thy  triuitph,  was  thy  scorn! 
That  very  hour, — when  passion   turn'd  to  wrath, 


MO  NATIONAL    FIFH    KKADKR. 

Resembled  hatred,  most — when  tl  y  disdain 

Made  my  whole  soul  a  cliaos,— in  that  hour 

The  tempters  found  me  a  revengeful  tool 

For  their  revenge !     Thou  hftdst  trampled  on  the  Tform — 

It  turn'd  and  stung  thee ! 

Pauline.  Love,  Sir,  hath  no  sting. 

What  was  the  slight  of  a  poor  powerless  girl. 
To  the  deep  wrong  of  this  most  vile  revenge  ? 
Oh,  how  I  loved  this  man! — a  serf! — a  slave! 

Melnotte.  Hold,  lady ! — No,  not  slave !     Despair  is  free! 
I  will  not  tell  thee  of  the  throes — the  struofffles — 
The  anguish — the  remorse.     No — let  it  pass ! 
And  let  me  come  to  such  most  poor  atonement 
Yet  in  my  power.     Pauline ! —        \Approaching  her  with  great 

emotion^  and  about  to  take  her  Vand, 

Pauline.  No,  touch  me  not ! 

I  know  my  fate.     You  are,  by  law,  my  tyrant ; 
And  I — O  Heaven  ! — a  peasant's  wife !     Fll  work, 
Toil,  drudge ;  do  what  thou  wilt ;  but  touch  me  not : 
Let  my  wrongs  make  me  sacred ! 

Melnotte.  Do  not  fear  me. 

Thou  dost  not  know  me,  Madame :  at  the  altar 
My  vengeance  ceased — my  guilty  oath  expired ! 
Henceforth,  no  image  of  some  marbled  saint. 
Niched  in  cathedral's  aisles,  is  hallow'd  more 
From  the  rude  hand  of  sacrilegious  wrong. 
I  am  thy  husband — nay,  thou  need'st  not  shuddei ; — 
Here,  at  thy  feet,  I  lay  a  husband's  rights. 
A  marriage  thus  unholy — unfulfill'd — 
A  bond  of  fraud — is,  by  the  laws  of  France, 
Made  void  and  null.     To-night,  then,  sleep — in  peace. 
To-morrow,  pure  and  virgin  as  this  morn 
I  bore  thee,  bathed  in  blushes,  from  the  altar, 
Thy  father's  arms  shall  take  thee  to  thy  home. 
The  law  shall  do  thee  justice,  and  restore 
Thy  right  to  bless  another  wifh  thy  love. 
And  when  thou  ait  happy,  and  hast  half  ^brgot 
Him  who  so  loved — so  wrong'd  t^ee,  think  at  least 
Heaven  left  some  remnant  of  the  angel  still 


THE    MUSQL'ITO.  441 

[u  that  poor  peasant's  nature! — llo  I  my  mother! 

Enter  Widow. 
Coi  duct  this  lady  (she  is  not  my  wife — 
She  is  our  guest,  our  honor'd  gue?>t,  my  mother  I) 
To  the  poor  chamber  wliere  the  sleep  of  virtue 
Never  beneafh  my  father's  honest  roof 
E'en  villains  dared  to  mar!     Now,  lady,  now, 
I  think  thou  wilt  believe  me. — Go,  my  mother ! 
Widoio.  She  is  not  thy  wife  ! 

Melnotte.  Hush  !  hush  !  for  mercy  sake  : 

Speak  not,  but  go.  [Widow  ascends  the  stairs  ;  Paulinb 

follows  weeping — turns  to  look  hack 
Melnotte  [sinking  down].  All  angels  bless  and  guard  her ! 

Lytton. 

Sir  Edward  Bulwer  Lytton,  youngest  son  of  the  late  Gen.  Bulvver,  of  Hey- 
don  Hall,  Norwalk,  England,  who  has  assumed  the  surname  of  his  mother's 
family,  was  born  in  180.").  He  exhibited  jHoots  of  su))erior  talents  at  a  very  early 
period,  having  written  verses  when  only  five  or  six  years  old.  His  ])reliminary 
studies  were  conducted  under  the  eye  of  his  mother,  a  woman  of  cultivated  taste 
and  rare  accomplislmients.  He  graduated  with  honor  at  Trinity  College,  Ox- 
ford, having  won  the  chancellor's  medal  for  the  best  English  poem.  In  182G,  at 
the  age  of  twenty-one,  he  publislied  "  Weeds  and  Wild  Flowers,"  a  small  vol- 
ume of  poems;  and  the  following  year  his  first  novel,  "  Falkland,"  appeared 
Since  that  time  lie  has  been  constantly  before  the  public  as  an  author,  both  in 
prose  and  verse.  Of  his  numerous  novels,  perhaps,  "  liienzi"  is  the  most  com- 
plete, high-toned,  and  energetic.  tSoon  after  publishing  "Eugene  Aram," 
about  1832,  lie  became  editor  of  the  "  New  3Ionthly  Magazine  ;"•  and  to  that 
journal  he  contributed  essays  and  criticisms,  subsequently  published  under  the 
title  of  "  The  Student."  Of  his  dramas,  "  The  Lady  of  Lyons  "  "  Richelieu," 
and  "  Money,"  are,  perhaps,  three  of  the  most  popular  plays  now  upon  the 
stage.  The  first  of  these,  from  which  the  preceding  extract  is  taken,  seldom 
fails  of  drawing  tears  when  well  represented.  Few  authors  have  displayed  more 
versatility.  His  language  and  imagery  are  often  exquisite,  and  his  power  of  de- 
lineating certain  classes  of  character  and  manners  superior  to  that  of  any  of  his 
contemporaries.  He  commenced  his  political  life  in  1831,  when  he  entered  par- 
liament, where  he  became  conspicuous  for  his  advocacy  of  the  rights  of  dra- 
matic authors,  and  for  his  liberal  opinions  on  other  questions.  In  the  general 
election  of  1842,  he  lost  his  seat,  and  was  not  again  returned  until  1852.  His 
speeches  in  parliament,  and  his  addresses,  have  served  to  raise  his  reputation 
His  inaugural  address  as  rector  of  the  University  of  Glasgow,  in  particulEu ,  haa 
Ijeen  greatly  admired. 


-F 


143.  The  Musquito. 

AIR  insect     that,  with  thread-like  legs  spread  out, 
And  bloo<l-extracting  bill,  and  fihuy  wing, 


442  NATIONAL    FlFi'U    RKADER. 

Dost  murniur,'  as  thou  slowly  sail'st  about, 

In  pitiless  ears  full  many  a  plaintive  thing, 
And  tell  how  little  our  large  veins  should  bleed, 
Would  we  but  yield  them  to  thy  bitter  need. 

2.  Unwillingly,  I  own — and,  what  is  woi'se,'' 

P\ill  angrily — men  hearken  to  thy  plaint ; 
Thou  gettest  many  a  brush  and  many  a  eurse,* 

For  saying  thou  art  gaunt,''  and  starved,  and  faint; 
Even  the  old  beggar,  while  he  asks*  for  food, 
Would  kill  thee,  hapless  stranger,  if  he  could. 

3.  I  call  thee  stranger,  for  the  town,  I  ween. 

Has  not  the  honor  of  so  proud  a  birth  :^ 
Thou  comest  from  Jersey  meadows,  fresh  and  green, 

The  offspring  of  the  gods,  though  born  on  earth ;' 
For  Tit^m*'  w^as  thy  sire,  and  fair^  was  she, 
The  ocean-nymph  that  nursed'°  thy  infancy. 

4.  Beneafh  the  rushes  was  thy  cradle  swung, 

And  when,  at  length,  thy  gauzy  wings  grew  strong, 
Abroad  to  gentle  airs"  their  folds  were  tlung, 

Rose  in  the  sky,  and  bore  thee  s6ft  along ; 
The  south  wind  breathed  to  waft'^  thee  on  thy  way, 
And  danced'^  and  shone  beneath  the  billowy  bay. 

0.  Calra""  rose  afar  the  city  spires,  and  thence 

Came  the  deep  murmur  of  its  throng  of  men, 
And  as  its  grateful  odors  met  thy  sense. 

They  seem'd  the  per'fumes  of  thy  native  fen. 
Fair  lay  its  ci-owded  streets,  and  at  the  siglit 
Thy  tiny  song  grew  shriller  with  delight. 

6.  At  length  thy  pinion  fluttei-'d  in  Broadway  : 

Ah,  there"  were  fairy'*  steps,  and  white  necks  kiasM 
By  wanton  airs,  and  eyes  whose  killing  ray 

Shone  through"  the  snowy  vails  like  stars  through  miit 


*  Murmur   (mSr'mer).—' Worse   (wSrs). — 'Curse   (kSrs).— *GSwnt. -- 
Av5ks  (itsks).— •  Birth  (birth).— '  Earth  (5rth).— 'Titan,  a  name  ol'leu 
used  by  the  ancients  for  Hklios,  the  sun. — *  FAir. — "  Niirsod  (n^rst). — 
"Airs  (&rz).— "  Wt\ft.—"  Danced  (danst). -'•  Cuhu    (Uam).-  '*Thei« 
(tUir).— '«  Fairy  (fir'l).— "  Throii-li  (thvh 


THE    MUSQUITO.  443 

And  fresli  as  morn,  on  many  a  cheek  and  chin, 
Bloom'd  the  bright  blood  through  the  transparent'  skin. 

•    Sure  these  were  sights  to  tempt  an  anchorite  !^ 
What !  do  I  hear  thy  slender  voice  complain  ? 

Thou  wailest  when  1  talk  of  beauty's  light, 
As  if  it  brought  the  memory  of  pain. 

Thou  art  a  w^ayward  being  :  well — come  near. 

And  pour  thy  talc  of  sorrow  in  my  ear. 

9    What  say'st  thou,  slanderer ! — rouge^  makes  thee  sick  f 

And  China  Bloom  at  best  is  sorry  food  ? 
And  Rowland's  Kalydor,  if  laid  on  thick, 

Poisons  the  thirsty"*  wretch  that  bores  for  blood  ! 
Go !  'twas  a  just  reward  that  met  thy  crime  ; 
But  shun  the  sacrilege  another  time. 

0.  That  bloom  was  made  to  look  at — not  to  touch ; 

To  worship^ — not  approach — that  radiant  white ; 
And  well  mio-ht  sudden  veno-eance  liojht  on  such 

As  dared,*^  like  thee,  most  impiously  to  bite. 
Thou  shouldst  have  gazed  at  distance,  and  admired— 
Murmur'd  thy  admiration,  and  retired. 

1 0.  Thou'rt  welcome  to  the  town ;  but  why  come  here 

To  bleed  a  brother  poet,  gaunt'  like  thee  ? 
Alas  !^  the  little  blood  I  have  is  dear, 

And  thin  will  be  the  banquet^  drawn  from  me. 
Look  round — the  pale-eyed  sisters  in  my  cell, 
Thy  old  acquaintance,  Song  and  Famine,  dwell. 

11.  Try  some  plump  alderman,  and  suck  the  blood 

Enrich'd  by  generous  wine  and  costly  meat : 
On  well-fill'd  skins,  sleek  as  thy  native  mud, 

Fix  thy  light  pump,  and  press  thy  freckled  feet : 
Go  to  the  inon  for  whom,  in  ocean's  halls, 
The  oyster  breeds,  and  the  green  turtle'"  sprawls. 

»  Trans  p&r' ent. — 'Anchorite  (ingk'orlt),  a  recluse;  a  hermit;  one 
"vho  retires  from  tVie  woild  from  religious  motives. — *  Rouge  (r6z).— 
'  Thirsty  (thirst' !).-  -»  VVorsliip  (wgr  ship).—*  D&red.— '  Ghunt.—'  A  l4s' 
•  Bauguftt.  (hAug'  kwet.— "  Turtle  (t^r'  tl). 


444  NATIONAL    Fll<-rn     lihAPEK. 

12.  There  corks  are  drawn,  and  the  red  vintage  flows, 
To  fill  the  swelling  veins  tor  tJiee,  and  now 
Th«  ruddy  cheek,  and  now  the  ruddier  nose 

Shall  tempt  thee,  as  thou  llittest  round  the  brow ; 
And  when  the  hour  of  sleep  its  quiet  brings, 
No  angry  hand  shall  rise  to  brush  thy  wings. 

W.  C.  Bbyant.' 


144.   A  Tailor's  Evenin^g  Soliloquy. 

1.  TV  AY  hath  put  on  his  jacket,  and  around 
U  His  burning  bosom  button'd  it  wifli  st^rs. 
Here  will  I  lay  me  on  the  velvet  grass, 
That  is  like  padding  to  earth's  meager  ribs, 
And  hold  communion  with  the  things  about  me. 
Ah  me !  how  lovely  is  the  golden  braid 

That  binds  the  skirt  of  night's  descending  robe ! 
The  thin  leaves,  quivering  on  their  silken  threads, 
Do  make  a  music  like  to  rustling  satin. 
As  the  light  breezes  smooth  their  downy  nap. 

2.  Ha !  what  is  this  that  rises  to  my  touch. 
So  like  a  cushion  ?     Can  it  be  a  cabbage  ?' 
It  is,  it  is  that  deeply  injured  flower, 

Which  boys  do  flout  us  wi&; — but  y6t  I  love  tnee; 
Thou  giant  rose,  wrapp'd  in  a  green  surtout. 
Doubtless  in  Eden  thou  didst  blush  as  bright 
As  these,  thy  puny  brethren ;  and  thy  breath 
Sweeten'd  the  fragrance  of  her  spicy  air ; 
But  now  thou  seemest  like  a  bankrupt  beau, 
Stripp'd  of  his  gaudy  hues  and  essences. 
And  growing  portly  in  his  sober  garments. 

8.  Is  that  a  swan  that  rides  upon  the  water  ? 

Oh  no,  it  is  that  other  gentle  bird, 
•     Which  is  the  patron  of  our  noble  calling. 

I  well  remember,  in  my  early  years, 

When  these  young  hands  first  closed  upon  a  goose ; 

*See  Biographical   Sketch,  p.    118. — '  (ubbufre,  a  term  applie<l  to 
cloth  purloiiitid  or  tituicu  by  onu  eu  ployed  to  cut  out  u  ganueut." 


RPEECH    OF    SEKGEANT    EUZFUZ.  445 

I  have  a  scar  upon  my  thimble  finger, 

Which  chronicles  the  hour  of  young  ambition. 

My  father  was  a  tailor,  and  his  father. 

And  my  sire's  grandsire,  all  of  them  were  tailors ; 

They  had  an  ancient  goose, — it  was  an  heir-loom 

From  some  remoter  tailor  of  our  race. 

It  happen'd  I  did  see  it  on  a  time 

When  none  was  near,  and  I  did  deal  wifh  it, 

And  it  did  burn  me, — oh,  most  fearfully ! 

It  is  a  joy  to  straighten  out  one's  limbs, 
And  leap  elastic  from  the  level  counter, 
Leaving  the  petty  grievances  of  earth. 
The  breaking  thread,  the  din  of  clashing  shears, 
And  all  the  needles  that  do  wound  the  spirit, 
For  such  a  pensive  hour  of  soothing  silence. 
Kind  Nature,  shuffling  in  her  loose  undress, 
Lays  bare  her  shady  bosom :  I  can  feel 
Wifli  all  around  me ;  I  can  hail  the  flowers 
That  sprig  earth's  mantle ;  and  yon  quiet  bird, 
That  rides  the  stream,  is  to  me  as  a  brother. 
The  vulgar  know  not  all  the  hidden  pockets, 
Where  Nature  stows  her  loveliness. 
But  this  unnatural  posture  of  my  legs 
Cramps  my  extended  calves,  and  I  must  go 
Where  I  can  coil  them  in  their  wonted  fashion. 

O.  W.  HOI-MBS.* 


145.   Speech  of  Sekgeant  Buzfuz. 

YOU  heard  from  my  learned  friend.  Gentlemen  of  the  Jury, 
that  this  is  an  action  for  a  breach  of  promise  of  marriage,  in 
which  the  damages  are  laid  at  fifteen  hundred  pounds.  The 
plaintiff,  Gentlemen,  is  a  widow;  yes.  Gentlemen,  a  widow.  The 
late  Mr.  Bard  ell,  some  time  before  his  death,  became  the  father, 
Gentlemen,  of  a  little  boy.  Wifh  this  little  boy,  the  only  pledge 
of  her  departed  exciseman,  Mrs.  Bard  ell  shrunk  from  the  world, 
ani  courted  the  retirement  and  tranquillity  of  Goswell-street ; 

*  See  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  217. 


446  NATIONAL    FI?TH    RKADKR. 

and  here  she  placed  in  her  front  parlor-window  a  written  pla- 
card', bearing  this  inscription, — "Apartments  fl-rnisheu  fok 

A  SINGLE  GENTLEMAN.       InQUIKE    WITHIN." 

2.  Mrs.  Bardell's  opinions  of  the  opposite  sex.  Gentlemen, 
were  derived  from  a  long  contemplation  of  the  ines'timable  cpial- 
iti';s  of  her  lost  husband.  She  had  no  fear, — she  had  no  dis- 
trust,— all  was  confidence  and  reliance.  "Mr.  Bardell,"  said  the 
widow,  "was  a  man  of  honor, — Mr.  Bardell  was  a  man  of  his 
word, — Mr.  Bardell  was  no  deceiver, — Mr.  Bardell  was  once  a 
single  gentleman  himself:  to  single  gentlemen  I  look  for  protec- 
tion, for  assistance,  for  comfort,  and  consolation  ;  in  single 
gentlemen  I  shall  pei'petually  see  something  to  remind  me  of 
what  Mr.  Bardell  was,  when  he  first  won  my  young  and  untiied 
affections ;  to  a  single  gentleman,  then,  shall  my  lodgings  be 
let." 

3.  Actuated  by  this  beautiful  and  touching  impulse  (among 
the  best  impulses  of  our  imperfect  nature.  Gentlemen),  the  lonely 
and  desolate  widow  dried  her  tears,  furnished  her  first  floor, 
caught  her  innocent  boy  to  her  maternal  bosom,  and  put  the 
bill  up  in  her  parlor-window.  Did  it  remain  there  long?  No. 
The  serpent  was  on  the  watch,  the  train  was  laid,  the  mine  was 
preparing,  the  sapper  and  miner  was  at  work !  Before  the  bill 
had  been  in  the  parlor-window  three  days, — three  days.  Gentle- 
men,— a  being,  erect  upon  two  legs,  and  bearing  all  the  out- 
ward semblance  of  a  man,  and  not  of  a  monster,  knocked  at  the 
door  of  Mrs.  Bardell's  house  !  He  inquired  Avithin  ;  he  took  the 
lodgings ;  and  on  the  very  next  day  he  entered  into  possession 
of  them.     This  man  was  Pickwick, — Pickwick,  the  defendant ! 

4.  Of  this  man  I  will  say  little.  The  subject  presents  but  few 
attractions;  and  I,  Gentlemen,  am  not  the  man,  nor  are  you, 
(ientlcmen,  the  men,  to  delight  in  the  contemplation  of  revolt- 
ing heartlessness,  and  of  systematic  villainy.  I  say  systematic 
villainy.  Gentlemen;  and  when  I  say  systematic  villainy,  let  nut 
tell  the  defendant,  Pickwick,  if  he  be  in  court,  as  I  am  informed 
he  is,  that  it  would  have  been  more  decent  in  him,  more  becom- 
ing, if  he  had  stopped  away.  Let  me  tell  him,  further,  that  a 
counsel,  in  his  discharge  of  his  duty,  is  neither  to  be  intimi- 
dated, nor  bullied,  nor  put  down ;  and  that  any  attempt  to  do 
Cither  the  one  or  the  other  will   n-coi!  on   th«  heau  of  the  at- 


8FEKCU.   OF   SI':KGKANT   uuzfuz.  447 

tempter,  be  he  plaintiff  or  be  he  defendant,  be  his  name  Pick- 
wick, or  Noakes,  oi  Stoake^,  or  Stiles,  or  Brown,  or  Thompson. 

5.  I  shall  show  you,  Gentlemen,  that  for  two  years  Pickwick 
continued  to  reside  constantly,  and  without  interruption  or  in 
termission,  at  Mrs.  Bardell's  house.  1  shall  show  you  that  Mrs. 
Bardell,  during  the  whole  of  that  time,  waited  on  him,  attended 
to  his  comlbi'ts,  cooked  his  meals,  looked  out  his  linen  for  the 
washerwoman  when  it  went  abroad,  darned,  aired,  and  prepared 
it  for  wear  when  it  came  home,  and,  in  short,  enjoyed  his  fullest 
trust  and  confidence.  I  shall  show  you  that,  on  many  occasions, 
he  gave  half-pence,  and  on  some  occasions  even  sixpence,  to  her 
little  boy.  I  shall  prove  to  you,  that  on  one  occasion,  when  he 
returned  from  the  country,  he  distinctly  and  in  terms  offered  her 
marriage, — previously,  however,  taking  special  care  that  there 
should  be  no  witnesses  to  their  solemn  contract ;  and  I  am  in  a 
situation  to  prove  to  you,  on  the  testimony  of  three  of  his  own 
friends, — most  unwilling  witnesses.  Gentlemen — most  unwilling 
witnesses, — that  on  that  morning  he  was  discovered  by  them 
holding  the  plaintitf  in  his  arms,  and  soothing  her  agitation  b} 
his  caresses  and  endearments. 

6.  And  now.  Gentlemen,  but  one  word  more.  Two  letters 
have  passed  between  these  parties, — letters  that  must  be  viewed 
with  a  cautious  and  suspicious  eye, — letters  that  were  evidently 
intended,  at  the  time,  by  Pickwick,  to  mislead  and  delude  any 
third  parties  into  whose  hands  they  might  fall.  Let  me  read 
the  first : — "  Garraway's,  twelve  o'clock. — Dear  Mrs.  B. — Chops 
and  Tomato  sauce.  Yours,  Pickwick."  Gentlemen,  what  does 
this  mean  ?  Chops  and  Tomato  sauce  !  Yours,  Pickwick  ! 
Chops !  Gracious  heavens !  And  Tomato  sauce !  Gentlemen, 
is  the  happiness  of  a  sensitive  and  confiding  female  to  be  trifled 
away  by  such  shallow  artifices  as  these  ? 

7.  The  next  has  no  date  whatever,  which  is  in  itself  suspi- 
cious:— "Dear  Mrs.  B.,  I  shall  not  be  at  home  to-morrow.  Slow 
coach."  And  then  follows  this  very  remarkable  expression, — 
"Don't  trouble  yourself  about  the  warming-pan."  The  warm- 
ing-pan !  Why,  Gentlemen,  who  does  trouble  himself  about  a 
warming-pan ?  Why  is  Mrs.  Bardell  so  earnestly  entieated  not 
to  agitate  herself  about  this  warming-pan,  unless  (as  is  no  doubt 
the  case)  it  is  a  oiere  cover  for  hidden  fire—  a  mere  sii}>8titute 


448  NATIONAL   FIFIH    READER. 

for  some  endearing  word  or  promise,  agreeably  to  a  preconcerted 
system  of  correspondence,  artfully  contrived  by  Pickwick  wifh  a 
view  to  his  contemplated  desertion  ?  And  what  does  this  allu- 
sion to  the  slow  coach  mean  ?  For  aught  I  know,  it  may  be  a 
reference  to  Pickwick  himself,  who  bas  most  unquestionably 
been  a  criminally  slow  coach  during  the  whole  of  this  transac- 
tion, but  whose  speed  will  now  be  very  unexpectedly  accelerated, 
find  whose  wheels,  Gentlemen,  as  he  will  find  to  his  cost,  will 
\  cry  soon  be  greased  by  you ! 

8.  But  enough  of  this,  Gentlemen.  It  is  difficult  to  smile  with 
an  aching  heart.  My  client's  hopes  and  prospects  are  ruined, 
and  it  is  no  figure  of  speech  to  say  that  her  occupation  is  gone 
indeed.  The  bill  is  down ;  but  there  is  no  tenant  I  Eligible 
single  gentlemen  pass  and  repass  ;  but  there  is  no  invitation  for 
them  to  inquire  within,  or  without !  All  is  gloom  and  silence 
in  the  house  :  even  the  voice  of  the  child  is  hushed ;  his  infant 
sports  are  disregarded,  when  his  mother  weeps. 

9.  But  Pickwick,  Gentlemen,  Pickwick,  the  ruthless  destroyer 
of  this  domestic  o'asis  in  the  desert  of  Goswell-street, — Pickwick, 
who  has  choked  up  the  well,  and  thrown  ashes  on  the  sward,— 
l^ickwick,  who  comes  before  you  to-day  wifli  his  heartless  to- 
mato-sauce and  warming-pans, — Pickwick  still  rears  his  head 
with  unblushing  effrontery,  and  gazes  without  a  sigh  on  the  ruin 
he  has  made !  Damages,  Gentlemen,  heavy  damages,  is  the  only 
punishment  with  which  you  can  visit  him, — the  only  recompense 
you  can  award  to  my  client  J  And  for  those  damages  she  now 
appeals  to  an  enlightened,  a  high-minded,  a  right-feeling,  a  con- 
scientious, a  dispassionate,  a  sympathizing,  a  contemplative  Jury 
of  her  civilized  countrymen  1  Charles  Dickens. 

Charles  Dickens,  the  famous  English  novelist,  was  bom  at  Portsmouth,  in 
February,  1812.  At  an  early  period  he  became  reporter  tor  the  newspaper  prft.«a 
of  London,  and  thus  escaped  the  crami)ing  necessity  of  dejiending  for  subsist- 
ence upon  his  first  purely  literary  labors.  His  earliest  works,  "  Sketches  by  Boz," 
first  written  for  periodicals,  were  collected  and  j)ublished  in  two  volumes,  bear- 
ing respectively  the  dates  of  18.36  and  18.'n.  His  works  immediately  succeeding, 
"Pickwick,"  "Oliver  Twist,"  and  "Nicholas  Nickleby,"  fully  established  his 
reputation.  The  career  of  Dickens  has  been  one  of  unitonn  success.  fTis  more 
recent  jHjblications,  "  Dombey,"  "  Bleak  House,"  and  "  Little  Uorrit."  prove 
conclusively  that,  far  from  having"  written  himsejf  out,"  Hk^  resources  of  liia 
mind  are  well-nigh  inexhaustible.  His  genius,  which  has  peopled  our  literature 
with  such  a  crowd  of  living  ami  moving  cliaractt^rs,  gives  |tromise  of  as  many 
0«>w  creations,  eguuUy  viirietl  ami  lru«  lo  uatnrH. 


SELECT    PASSAGES    IN    VEllSE,  449 


146.  Select  Passages  in  Yekse. 

I. 
Early  Dawn. — Shelley. 
The  point  of  one  white  star  is  quivering  still 
Deep  in  the  orange  light  of  widening  morn, 
Beyond  the  purple  mountains  :  through  a  chasm 
Of  wind-divided  mist  the  darker  lake 
Reflects  it.     Now  it  wanes  :  it  gleams  again 
As  the  waves  fade,  and  as  the  burning  threads 
Of  woven  cloud  unravel  in  pale  air : 
'Tis  lost !  and  through  yon  peaks  of  cloud-like  snow 
The  roseate  sunlight  quivers :  hear  I  not 
The  JEoIian'  music  of  her  sea-green  plumes 
Winnowing  the  crimson  dawn? 

II. 
Daybreak. — Atlantic  Monthly, 
A  WIND  came  up  out  of  the  sea. 
And  said,  "  O  mists,  make  room  for  me !" 
It  hail'd  the  ships,  and  cried,  "  Sail  en. 
Ye  mariners !  the  night  is  gone !" 
And  hurried  landward  far  away, 
Crying,  "  Awake !  it  is  the  day  !" 
It  said  unto  the  forest,  "  Shout ! 
Hang  all  your  leafy  banners  out !" 
It  touch'd  the  wood-bird's  folded  wing, 
And  said,  "  0  binl,  awake  and  sing !" 
And  o'er  the  farms,  "  O  chanticleer, 
Your  clarion  blow  I  the  day  is  near  I" 
It  whisper'd  to  the  fields  of  corn, 
"  Bow  down,  and  hail  the  coming  morn  I" 
It  shouted  through  the  belfry-tower, 
"  Awake,  O  bell !  proclaim  the  hour !" 
It  cross'd  the  church-yard  with  a  sigh, 
And  said,  "Not  yet!  in  quiet  lie'" 

*  .^Jolian,  pertainini?  to  yFiOLUs,  the  god  of  the  winds  :  hence  music 
produced  by  wind  may  be  termed  ^olian  music. 

29 


460  NATIONAL   FIJTH    READEK. 

III. 

Daybreak. — Shelley. 
Day  had  awakeii'd  all  things  tliat  be, 
The  lark,  and  the  thrush,  and  tlie  swallow  free, 
And  the  milkmaid's  song,  and  the  mower's  scythe. 
And  the  matin  bell,  and  the  mountain  bee : 

Firetiies  were  quench'd  on  the  dewy  corn, 
Glow-worms  went  out,  on  the  river's  brim. 
Like  lamps  which  a  student  forgets  to  trim : 

The  beetle  forgot  to  wind  his  horn, 
The  crickets  were  still  in  the  meadow  and  hill : 
Like  a  flock  of  rooks  at  a  farmer's  gun, 
Night's  dreams  and  terrors,  every  one. 
Fled  from  the  brains  which  are  their  prey, 
From  the  lamp's  death  to  the  morning  ray. 

IV. 

Sunrise  in  S.  America. — Bowles.' 
'Tis  dawn  : — the  distant  Andes'  rocky  spires, 
One  after  one,  have  caught  the  oriental  fires. 
Where  the  dun  condor  shoots  his  upward  flight, 
His  wings  are  touch'd  wifli  momentary  light. 
Meantime,  beneafh  the  mountains'  glittering  heads, 
A  boundless  ocean  of  gray  vapor  spreads. 
That  o'er  the  champaign,  stretching  far  below, 
Moves  on,  in  cluster'd  masses,  rising  slow, 
Till  all  the  living  landscape  is  display'd 
In  various  pomp  of  color,  light,  and  shade, — 
Hills,  forests,  rivers,  lakes,  and  level  plain, 

'  William  Lisle  Bowlks  was  born  at  Northamptonshire,  Enghind,  on 
the  25th  of  September,  1762.  Ho  received  his  early  education  at  Win- 
chester, where  he  was  at  tlie  head  of  tlie  school  during  his  last  year, 
and,  in  consequence,  was  elected  a  scholar  of  Trinity  College,  Oxford, 
in  1781.  In  1783  he  gained  the  chancellor's  prize  for  Latin  vei-se  ;  and 
published  several  of  his  beautiful  sonnets  and  other  poems  in  1789.  Hid 
sonnets  have,  prol)ably,  never  been  sinpassed.  "The  Missionary  of  the 
Andes,"  i)ul»lished  in  1815,  is,  perhai>s,  as  good  as  any  of  his  numeroua 
and  excellent  poems.  He  entered  the  ministry,  and  became  Vicar  of 
liremhill,  in  1804,  which  was  his  residence  for  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  cen- 
tury     He  died  at  Salisbury,  his  last  residence,  on  the  7th  of  April,  I860. 


SELECT    PASSAGES   IN    VERSE.  451 

Lessening  in  sunshine  to  the  southern  main. 

The  lama's  fleece  fumes  with  ascendino-  dew ; 

The  o-em-like  hummino:-birds  their  toils  renew; 

And  see,  where  yonder  stalks,  in  crimson  pride, 

The  tall  flamingo,  by  the  river's  side, — 

Stalks,  in  his  richest  plumage  bright  array'd, 

With  snowy  neck  superb,  and  legs  of  lengthenmg  shade. 


Dawn. — Willis. 
Throw  up  the  window !     'Tis  a  morn  for  life 
In  its  most  subtle  luxury.     The  air 
Is  like  a  breathing  from  a  rarer  world ; 
And  the  south  wind  is  like  a  gentle  friend, 
Parting  the  hair  so  softly  on  my  brow. 
It  has  come  over  gardens,  and  the  flowers 
That  kiss'd  it  are  betray'd ;  for  as  it  parts, 
Wifh  its  invisible  fingers,  my  loose  hair, 
I  know  it  has  been  trifling  with  the  rose, 
And  stooping  to  the  violet.     There  is  joy 
For  all  God's  creatures  in  it.     The  wet  leaves 
Are  stirring  at  its  touch  ;  and  birds  are  singing, 
As  if  to  breathe  were  music ;  and  the  grass 
Sends  up  its  modest  odor  with  the  dew, 
Like  the  small  tribute  of  humility. 

VI. 

Morning. — Milton.' 
Sweet  is  the  breath  of  Morn,  her  rising  sweet, 
With  charm  of  earliest  birds ;  pleasant  the  sun, 
When  first  on  this  delightful  land  he  spreads 
His  orient  beams,  on  Aerb,  tree,  fruit,  and  flower, 
Glis'.ering  with  dew ;  fragrant  the  fertile  earth 
After  soft  showers ;  and  sweet  the  coming  on 
Of  grateful  eveninof  mild  :  then  silent  Niolit, 
With  this  her  sobnnn  bird,  and  this  fair  moon. 
And  these  the  gems  of  heaven,  her  starry  train. 

'  i\IiLTON,  see  Biographical  Sket<;h,  p.  582. 


4:62  NATIONAL    FIBTH    READER. 

VII. 

Morning  on  the  Rhine. — Bowles. 

'TwAS  morn,  and  beautiful  the  mountain's  brow-  - 
Hung  wifii  the  chisters  of  tlie  bending  vine — 
Shone  in  the  early  light,  when  on  the  Rhine 
.  We  saii'd,  and  heard  the  vvatei-s  round  the  prow 

In  murmurs  parting  •  vaiying  as  we  go. 
Rocks  after  rocks  come  forward  and  retire, 
As  some  gray  convent-wall  or  sun-lit  spire 

Starts  up,  along  the  banks,  unfolding  slow. 

Here  castles,  like  the  prisons  of  despair, 

Frown  as  we  pass ! — There,  on  the  vineyard's  side, 
The  bursting  sunshine  pours  its  streaming  tide ; 

While  Grief,  forgetful  amid  scenes  so  fair, 

Counts  not  the  hours  of  a  long  summer's  day, 

Nor  heeds  how  fast  the  prospect  winds  away. 

VIII. 

Morning  Sounds. — Beattie.* 

But  who  the  melodies  of  morn  can  tell  ? — 
The  wild  brook  babbling  down  the  mountain's  side , 

The  lowing  herd  ;  the  sheepfold's  simple  bell ; 
The  pipe  of  early  shepherd,  dim  descried 
In  the  lone  valley;  echoing  far  and  wide, 

The  clamorous  horn  along  the  cliffs  above ; 
The  holl5w  murmur  of  the  ocean-tide ; 

The  hum  of  bees ;  the  linnet's  lay  of  love , 
And  the  full  choir  tliat  wakes  the  universal  grove. 

The  cottage  curs  at  early  pilgrinr  bark ; 
Crown'd  witli  her  pail,  the  tripping  milkmaid  sings ! 

The  whistling  plowman  stalks  afield;  and  hark! 
Down  the  rough  slope  the  ponderous  wagon  rings; 
Through  rustling  corn  the  liare  astonish'd  springs  ; 

Slow  tolls  the  village  clock  the  drowsy  hour; 

*  James  Bbattib,  the  well-known  Scotch  poet  and  moralist,  author  o! 
the  celebrated  poem  entitled  the  "Minstrel,"  and  of  the  "  Ks-sixy  on 
Truth,"  was  born  on  the  5th  of  December,  1735.  and  died  ou  the  18tb 

of  August,  .'SO.i. 


SELECT    1' ASS  AGES    IN    VEKSE.  453 


The  partridge  bursts  away  on  whirring  wings; 
Deep  mourns  the  turtle  in  sequester'd  bower ; 
And  shrill  lark  carols  clear  from  her  aerial  tower. 


IX. 

Early  Rising. — Hurdis/ 
Rise  wifli  the  lark,  and  with  the  lark  to  bed. 
The  breath  of  night's  destructive  to  the  hue 
Of  every  flower  that  blows.     Go  to  the  field, 
And  ask  the  humble  daisy  why  it  sleeps, 
Soon  as  the  sun  departs.     Why  close  the  eyes 
Of  blossoms  infinite,  ere  the  still  moon 
Her  oriental  vail  puts  ofi"  ?     Think  why. 
Nor  let  the  sweetest  blossom  be  exposed. 
That  nature  boasts,  to  night's  unkindly  damp. 
Well  may  it  droop,  and  all  its  freshness  lose, 
Compell'd  to  taste  the  rank  and  poisonous  steam 
Of  midnight  theater,  and  morning  ball. 
Give  to  repose  the  solemn  hour  she  claims ; 
And  from  the  forehead  of  the  morning  steal 
The  sweet  occasion. 

Oh !  there  is  a  charm 

That  morning  has,  that  gives  the  brow  of  age 

A  smack  of  youth,  and  makes  the  lip  of  youth 

Breathe  per'fumes  exquisite.     Expect  it  not, 

Ye  who  till  noon  upon  a  down-bed  lie, 

Indulging  feverish  sleep ;  or,  wakeful,  dream 

Of  happiness  no  mortal  heart  has  felt, 

But  in  the  regions  of  romance\     Ye  fair, 

Like  you  it  must  be  wooed,  or  never  won ; 

And,  being  lost,  it  is  in  vain  ye  ask 

For  milk  of  roses  and  Olympian  dew. 

Cosmetic  art  no  tincture  can  afford 

The  faded  features  to  restore  :  no  chain, 

Be  it  of  gold,  and  strong  as  adamant, 

Can  fetter  beauty  to  the  fair  one  o  will. 

.        _ 

James  Hurdis,  an  English  [)Of  t  of  considerable  ability,  was  born  in 
17G3,  and  died  in  1801. 


4-54  NATIONAL    FIFIH     KhAl>KR. 


147.  Select  PASSAGEb  m  Yekse. 

I. 
Invocation  to  Ntgfit. — J.  F.  IIollings. 

Come,  wifib  thy  sweeping  cloud  and  starry  vest, 

Mother  of  counsel,  and  the  joy  which  lies 

In  feelings  deep,  and  inward  sympathies, 
Soothing,  like  founts  of  health,  the  wearied  breast 
Lo !  o'er  the  distant  hills  the  day-star's  crest 

Sinks  redly  burning ;  and  the  winds  arise. 

Moving  with  shadowy  gusts  and  feeble  sighs 
Amid  the  reeds  which  veil  the  bittern's  nest ! 
Day  hath  its  melody  and  light — the  sense 

Of  mirth  which  sp5rts  round  fancy's  fairy  mine ; 
But  the  full  powder,  which  loftier  aids  dispense, 

To  speed  the  soul  where  scenes  unearthly  shine — 
Silence,  and  peace,  and  stern  magnificence. 

And  awe,  and  throned  solemnity — are  thine ! 

II. 
Evening. — Croly  ' 
When  eve  is  purpling  cliff  and  cave. 

Thoughts  of  the  heart,  how  soft  ye  flow ! 
Not  softer  on  the  western  wave 

The  golden  lines  of  sunset  glow. 
Then  all  by  chance  or  fate  removed, 

Like  spirits  crowd  upon  the  eye, — 
The  few  we  liked,  the  one  we  loved, — 

And  the  whole  heart  is  memory  : 
And  life  is  like  a  fading  flower. 

Its  beauty  dying  as  we  gjize ; 
Yet  as  the  shadows  round  us  lower. 

Heaven  pours  above  a  brighter  blaze. 

'  Rev.  George  Croly,  rector  of  St.  Stephens,  Walbrook,  liondon,  was 
born  in  Ireland,  toward  the  close  of  the  last  century,  and  was  educated 
at  Trinity  College,  Dublin.  Talented,  and  astonishingly  industrious, 
he  has  written  much  both  in  prose  and  verse.  He  is  a  correct  and  ele- 
gant poet,  and  his  prose  style  is  clear,  rich,  idiomatic,  and  at  times  re- 
ntal kably  eloquent 


SELECT   PASSAOES    LN    VERSE.  455 

When  morning  sheds  its  gorgeous  dye, 
Our  hope,  our  heart,  to  earth  is  given ; 

But  dark  and  lonely  is  the  eye 

That  turns  not,  at  its  eve,  to  heaven. 

III. 

Night. — Coleridge.' 
The  crackling  embers  on  the  hearth  are  dead ; 

The  in-door  note  of  in'dustry  is  still ; 

The  latch  is  fast ;  upon  the  window-sill 
The  small  birds  wait  not  for  their  daily  bread  : 
The  voiceless  flowers — how  quietly  they  shed 

Their  nightly  odors !  and  the  household  rill 

Murmurs  continuous  dulcet  sounds,  that  fill 
The  vacant  expectation,  and  the  dread 
Of  listening  night.     And  haply  now  she  sleeps , 

For  all  the  garrulous  noises  of  the  air 
Are  hush'd  in  peace :  the  soft  dew  silent  weeps, 

Like  hopeless  lovers,  for  a  maid  so  fair : — 
Oh !  that  I  were  the  happy  dream  that  creeps 

To  her  soft  heart,  to  find  ray  image  there. 

IV. 

Night  at  Corinth.^ — Byron. 
'Tis  midnight :  on  the  mountains  brown 
The  cold  round  moon  shines  deeply  down : 

Hartley  Coleridge,  eldest  son  of  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge,  was 
born  at  Clevedown,  a  small  village  near  Bristol,  England,  September 
19th,  1796.  He  received  his  degree  at  Oriel  College,  Oxford,  in  1821, 
though  he  was  principally  educated  by  desultory  reading,  and  by  the 
living  voice  of  his  father,  Wordsworth,  Lloyd,  Wilson,  and  Db  Quin- 
CEY.  He  passed  about  two  years  in  London,  writing  sonnets  and  small 
pieces  for  the  "London  Magazine  ;"  conducted  a  boys'  school,  for  five 
years,  at  Ambleside,  Westmoreland  county ;  and  then  removed  to 
Grasmere,  where  he  resided  during  the  remainder  of  his  life,  supporting 
himself  mostly  by  his  pen,  writing  in  part  for  "  Blackwood's  Magazine.'* 
lie  died  on  the  6th  of  January,  1849.  Some  of  his  poems  are  exquisite- 
ly beautiful,  and  his  sonnets  are  surpassed  hy  few  in  the  language.  His 
prose  works  are  remarkable  for  brilliancy  of  imagery,  beauty  of  thought, 
pure  English  style,  and  pleasing  and  instructive  suggestions. — 'The 
night  here  described  is  supposed  to  have  been  in  1715,  when  Corinth, 
then  in  possession  of  the  Venetians,  was  besieged  by  the  Turks 


166  NATKhNAJ.     FIFIH     RICADI-Jt. 

Blue  roll  the  waters :  blue  tlie  sky 
Spreads  like  an  ocean  hung  on  high, 
Bespangled  wifh  those  isle?  of  light, 
So  widely,  spiritually  bright ; — 
Who  ever  gazed  upon  thein  shining, 
And  turn'd  to  earth  without  repining, 
Nor  wish'd  for  wings  to  flee  away. 
And  mix  with  their  eternal  ray  ? 
The  waves  on  either  shore  lay  there 
Calm,  clear,  and  azure  as  the  air ; 
And  scarce  their  foam  the  pebbles  shook, 
But  murmur'd  meekly  as  the  brook. 
The  winds  were  pillow'd  on  the  waves ; 
The  banners  droop'd  along  their  staves. 
And,  as  they  fell  around  them  furling. 
Above  them  shone  the  crescent  curling : 
And  that  deep  silence  was  unbroke, 
Save  where  the  watch  his  signal  spoke. 
Save  where  the  steed  neigh'd  6ft  and  shrill. 
And  echo  answer'd  from  the  hill ; 
And  the  wild  hum  of  that  wild  host 
Rustled  like  leaves  from  coast  to  coast, 
As  rose  the  Muezzin's*  voice  in  air 
In  midnight  call  to  wonted*  prayer. 

V. 

A  Summer's  Night. — P.  J.  Bailey. 
The  last  high  upward  slant  of  sun  on  the  trees, 
Like  a  dead  soldier's  s2t;ord  upon  his  pall, 
Seems  to  console  earth  for  the  glory  gone. 
Oh  1  I  could  weep  to  see  the  day  die  thus. 
The  death-bed  of  a  day,  how  beautiful ! 
Linger,  ye  clouds,  one  moment  longer  there ; 
Fan  it  to  slumber  wifh  your  golden  wings ! 
Like  pious  prayers,  ye  seem  to  soothe  its  end. 
U  will  wake  no  more  till  the  all-revealing  day ; 

» tX\x.Kun,  one  appointed  by  the  Turks,  who  do  not  use  bells  foi 
the  purpose,  to  summon  the  religious  to  their  devotions,  to  the  extent 
Ot  his  voice.—  *  VVonte'l  (wftnt'ed), 


SKLKCr    PASSAGKd    IN    VKKSK.  lo? 

When,  like  h  drop  of  water,  greaten'd  bright 

Int4j  a  shadow,  it  shall  show  itself, 

With  all  its  little  tyrannous  things  and  deeds, 

Unhomc'l  and  clear.     The  day  hath  gone  to  God, — 

Straight-  -like  an  infant's  spirit,  or  a  mock'd 

And  mr-urning  messenger  of  grace  to  man. 

Would  it  had  taken  me  too  on  its  wings ! 

My  end  is  nigh.     Would  I  might  die  outright  I 

So  o'er  the  sunset  clouds  of  red  mortality 

The  emerald  hues  of  deathlessness  difinse 

Their  glory,  heightening  to  the  starry  blue 

Of  all  embosoming  eternity. 

Who  that  hath  lain  lonely  on  a  high  hill, 

In  the  imperious  silence  of  full  noon, — 

With  nothing  but  the  clear  dark  sky  about  him, 

Like  God's  hand  laid  upon  the  head  of  earth, — 

But  hath  expected  that  some  natural  spirit 

Should  start  out  of  the  universal  air, 

And,  gathering  his  cloudy  robe  around  him. 

As  one  in  act  to  teach  mysterious  things. 

Explain  that  he  must  die  ? 

VI. 

Night  and  Death. — White.* 

Mysterious  night !  when  our  first  parent  knew 
Thee,  from  report  divine,  and  heard  thy  name, 
Did  he  not  tremble  for  this  lovely  frame. 

This  glorious  canopy  of  light  and  blue  ? 

Yet  'neafli  a  curtain  of  translucent  dew. 

Bathed  in  the  rays  of  the  great  setting  flame, 
Hesperus,*  with  the  host  of  heaven  came ; 

And  lo !  creation  widen'd  in  man's  view. 

Who  could  have  thought  such  darkness  lay  conceal'd 
Within  thy  beams,  0  Sun  ?  or  who  could  find, 

While  fly,  and  leaf,  and  insect  stood  reveal'd, 

*  Joseph  Blanco  "White,  a  Spanish  gentleman  of  Irish  descent,  who 
came  to  England  in  1810,  and  devoted  himself  to  literature,  chiefly 
through  the  magazines  and  periodical  press.  He  was  bom  in  1776,  and 
died  in  1841. — '  Hesperus,  the  evening  star. 

♦JO 


458  NATIONAL    FIFTH    RKA  M:K. 

That  to  such  countless  orbs  tlioii  madcst  us  blind? 
Why  do  wc  then  shun  death  with  anxious  strife? — 
If  light  3an  thus  deceive,  wheretbre  not  life? 

VII. 

Night. — Siiellet. 
How  beautiful  this  night !    The  balmiest  sigh, 
Which  vernal  zephyrs  breathe  in  evening's  car, 
Were  discord  to  the  speaking  quietude 
That  wraps  this  moveless  scene.     Heaven's  gbon  vault, 
Studded  with  stars  unutterably  bright, 
Through  which  the  moon's  unclouded  grandeur  rolls, 
Seems  like  a  canopy  which  love  has  spread 
To  curtain  her  sleeping  world.     Yon  gentle  hills, 
Robed  in  a  garment  of  untrodden  snow  ; 
Yon  darksome  rocks,  whence  icicles  depend, — 
So  stainless,  that  their  white  and  glittering  spires 
Tinge  not  the  moon's  pure  beam ;  yon  castled  steep, 
Whose  banner  hangeth  o'er  the  time-worn  tower 
So  idly,  that  rapt  fancy  deemcth  it 
A  metaphor  of  peace ; — all  form  a  scene 
Where  musing  solitude  might  love  to  lift 
Her  soul  above  this  spliere  of  earthliness ; 
Where  silence,  undisturb'd,  might  watch  alone, 
So  cold,  so  bright,  so  still. 

VIII. 

Thk  Moon. — Charlotte  Smith.* 
Queen  of  the  silver  bow  !  by  thy  pale  beam, 

Alone  and  pensive,  1  delight  to  stray. 
And  watch  thy  shadow  trembling  in  the  stream, 

Or  mark  the  floating  clouds  that  cross  thy  way : 

*  Mrs.  Charlotte  Smith  (Miss  Turner)  was  bom  in  King-street,  St. 
lames  Square,  London,  May  4th,  1749.  Her  first  collection  of  sonnets 
\,\n\  other  poems  was  very  popular,  passing  through  no  less  than  eleven 
editions.  Her  first  novel,  "F.mmeline,"  which  was  exceedingly  popu- 
lar, appeared  in  1788.  Her  ncnels  and  otlier  prose  works,  in  all  about 
forty  volumes,  were  much  adn)ired  by  Sir  Waltrr  Scorr  and  other  con- 
temporaries ;  but  she  is  now  most  known  and  most  valued  for  hei 
poetry,  which  abounds  with  toiu  lu'S  of  tenderness,  gnice,  and  beauty. 
8he  died  on  the  liSth  of  Octobci,  1800. 


LANDSCAPK    BKAUTY.  451* 

And  wJiile  I  pize,  thy  mikl  and  placid  light 

Sheds  a  soft  cahn  upon  my  troubled  breast ; 
And  oft  I  think,  fair  planet  of  the  night, 

That  in  thy  orb  the  wretched  may  have  rest; 
The  sufferers  of  the  earth  perhaps  may  go, 

Released  by  death,  to  thy  benignant  sphere, 
And  the  sad  children  of  despair  and  woe 

Forget,  in  thee,  their  cup  of  sorrow  here. 
Oh  !  that  I  soon  may  reach  thy  world  serene 
Poor  wearied  pilgrim  in  this  toiling  scene ! 

IX. 

The  Stars. — Darwin.' 

Roll  on,  ye  stars ;  exult  in  youthful  prime ; 
Mark  wifh  bright  curves  the  printless  steps  of  T^me  ; 
Near  and  more  near  your  beamy  cars  approach. 
And  lessening  orbs  on  lessening  orbs  encroach 
Flowers  of  the  sky,  ye,  too,  to  age  must  yield, 
Frail  as  your  silken  sisters  of  the  field. 
Star  after  star  from  heaven's  high  arch  shall  rush 
Suns  sink  on  suns,  and  systems  systems  crush, 
Headlong,  extinct,  to  one  dark  center  fall, 
And  death,  and  night,  and  chaos  mingle  all ; 
Till  o'er  the  wreck,  emerging  from  the  storm, 
Immortal  Nature  lifts  her  changeful  form. 
Mounts  from  her  funeral  pyre,  on  wings  of  flame, 
And  soars  and  shines,  another  and  the  same. 


148.  Landscape  Beauty. 

IT  is  easy  enough  to  understand  how  the  sight  of  a  picture  or 
statue  should  affect  us  nearly  in  the  same  way  as  the  sight  Oi 
the  original :  nor  is  it  much  more  difficult  to  conceive,  how  the 

Erasmus  Darwin,  an  English  physician,  poet,  and  botanist,  was 
bom  at  Elton,  in  1731,  and  after  taking  his  degree  at  Edinburgh,  pur- 
sued his  professional  career  at  Lichfield,  from  which  place  he  removed 
to  Derby,  where  he  died  in  1802.  Dr.  Darwin  was  an  original  thinker, 
a  great  adept  in  analogies,  and  an  able  versifier. 


460  NATK  NAL    KIbTH    KKADKK 

sight  of  a  cottage  should  give  us  something  of  the  same  feeling 
as  the  sight  of  a  peasant's  family ;  and  the  aspect  of  a  town 
raise  many  of  the  same  ideas  as  the  appearance  of  a  multitude 
of  persons.  We  may  begin,  therefore,  wifli  an  example  a  little 
more  complicated.  Take,  for  instance,  the  case  of  a  common 
English  landscape — green  meadows  with  grazing  and  ruminating 
cattle — canals  or  navigable  rivers — well-fenced,  well-cultivated 
fields — neat,  clean,  scattered  cottages — humble  antique  churches, 
with  church-yard  elms,  and  crossing  hedgerows, — all  seen  under 
bright  skies,  and  in  good  weather. 

2.  There  is  much  beauty,  as  every  one  will  acknowledge,  in 
such  a  scene.  But  in  what  does  the  beauty  consist  ?  Not  cer- 
tainly in  the  mere  mixture  of  colors  and  forms ;  for  colors  more 
pleasing,  and  lines  more  graceful  (according  to  any  theory  of  grace 
that  may  be  preferred),  might  be  spread  upon  a  board,  or  a 
painter's  pallet,  without  engaging  the  eye  to  a  second  glance,  or 
raising  the  least  emotion  in  the  mind :  but  in  the  picture  of 
human  happiness  that  is  presented  to  our  imaginations  and  al- 
fections ;  in  the  visible  and  unequivocal  signs  of  comfort,  and 
cheerful  and  peaceful  enjoyment — and  of  that  secure  and  suc- 
cessful in'dustry  that  insures  its  continuance — and  of  the  piety 
by  which  it  is  exalted — and  of  the  simplicity  by  which  it  is  con- 
trasted with  the  guilt  and  the  fever  of  a  city  life ;  in  the  images 
of  health,  and  temperance,  and  plenty  which  it  exhibits  to  every 
eye ;  and  in  the  glimpses  which  it  affords  to  warmer  imagina- 
tions, of  those  primitive  or  fabulous  times,  when  man  was  uncor- 
rupted  by  luxury  and  ambition,  and  of  those  humble  retreats  in 
which  we  still  delight  to  imagine  that  love  and  philosophy  may 
find  an  unpolluted  asy'lum. 

3.  At  all  events,  however,  it  is  human  feeling  that  excites  our 
sympathy,  and  forms  the  true  object  of  our  emotions.  It  is 
man,  and  man  alone,  that  we  see  in  the  beauties  of  the  earth 
which  he  inhabits;  or,  if  a  more  sensitive  and  extended  sympa- 
thy connect  us  wi6i  the  lower  families  of  animated  nature,  and 
make  us  rejoice  with  the  lambs  that  bleat  on  the  uplands,  or  the 
cattle  that  repose  in  the  valley,  or  even  with  the  living  plants 
that  drink  the  bright  sun  and  the  balmy  air  beside  them,  it  is 
Btill  the  idea  of  enjoyment — of  feelings  that  animate  the  e<ist- 
cuce  of  sentient  beintjs — that  calls  forth  .-dl  «>ur  emotion^  jind 


LANDSilAl^K    HKAUTT.  461 

IS  the  parent  of  all  tht*  beauty  with  which  we  pioceed  to  invest 
the  inanimate  creation  around  us. 

4.  Instead  of  this  quiet  and  taiiie  English  landscape,  let  ns 
now  take  a  Welsh  or  a  Highland  scene,  and  see  whether  its 
beauties  will  admit  of  being  explained  on  the  same  principle. 
Here,  we  shall  have  lofty  mountains,  and  rocky  and  lonely  re- 
cesses— tufted  woods  hung  over  precipices — lakes  intersected 
wifll  castled  promontories — ample  solitudes  of  unplowed  and  un- 
trodden valleys — nameless  and  gigantic  ruins — and  mountain 
echoes  repeating  the  scream  of  the  eagle  and  the  roar  of  the 
cataract. 

5.  This,  too,  is  beautiful,  and,  to  those  who  can  interpret  the 
language  it  speaks,  far  more  beautiful  than  the  prosperous  scene 
with  which  we  have  contrasted  it.  Yet,  lonely  as  it  is,  it  is  to 
the  recollection  of  man  and  the  suggestion  of  human  feelings 
that  its  beauty  also  is  owing.  The  mere  forms  and  colors  that 
compose  its  visible  appearance  arc  no  more  capable  of  exciting 
any  emotion  in  the  mind  than  the  forms  and  colors  of  a  Turkey 
carpeto  It  is  sympathy  with  the  present  or  the  past,  or  the 
imaginary  inhubitants  of  such  a  region,  that  alone  gives  it  either 
interest  or  beauty ;  and  the  delight  of  those  who  behold  it  will 
always  be  found  to  be  in  exact  prop''>rtion  to  the  force  of  their 
imaginations  and  tlie  w^armth  of  then-  social  affections. 

6.  The  leading  impiessions  here  are  those  of  romantic  seclu- 
sion and  primeval  simplicity  ;  lovers  sequestered  in  these  blissful 
solitudes,  "  from  towns  and  toils  remote,"  and  rustic  poet^  and 
philosophers  communing  with  nature,  and  at  a  distance  from  the 
low  pursuits  and  selfish  malignity  of  ordinary  mortals :  then 
there  is  the  sublime  impression  of  the  Mighty  Powers  which 
piled  the  massive  clitts  upon  each  other,  and  rent  the  mountains 
asunder,  and  scattered  their  giant  fragments  at  their  base,  and 
all  the  images  connected  with  tlie  monuments  of  ancient  mag- 
nificence and  extinguished  hostility — the  feuds,  and  the  combats, 
and  the  triumphs  of  its  wild  and  primitive  inhabitants,  contrast- 
ed with  the  stillness  and  desolation  of  the  scenes  where  they  lie 
interred ;  and  the  romantic  ideiis  attached  to  their  ancient  tradi- 
tions, and  the  peculiarities  of  the  actual  life  of  their  descendants 
— their  wild  and  enthusiastic  poetry — their  gloomy  superstitions 
— their  attachment  to  their  chiefs — the  dangers,  and  the  hard- 


4:62  NATIONAL    KIFIH     RKADKR. 

ships,  and  enjoyments  of  their  lonely  liuntings  and  fishings — 
their  pastornl  shielings  on  the  mountains  in  t-iimuuM- — and  the 
tales  and  the  sports  that  anmsc  the  little  groups  that  *ire  frozen 
into  their  vast  and  trackless  valleys  in  the  winter. 

7.  Add  to  all  this  the  traces  of  vast  and  obscure  antiquity 
that  are  impressed  on  the  language  and  the  hahits  of  the  people, 
and  on  the  clitl's,  and  caves,  and  gulfy  torrents  of  the  hmd  ;  and 
the  solemn  and  touching  rotlcction,  perpetually  recurring,  of  the 
weakness  and  insignificance  of  perishable  man,  whose  geneia- 
tion.^  thus  pass  away  into  oblivion,  with  all  their  toils  and  ambi- 
tion;  while  nature  holds  on  her  unvarying  course,  and  pours  out 
her  streams,  and  renews  her  forests,  with  undecaying  activity, 
regardless  of  the  fate  of  her  proud  and  perishable  sovereign. 

Jeffhey.* 


149.    KiLIMANDJARO. 

1.  TTAIL  to  thee,  monarch  of  African  mountains, 
•i-L  Remote,  inaccessible,  silent,  and  lone — 
Who,  from  the  heait  of  the  tropical  fervors, 
Liftest  to  heaven  thine  alien  snows, 
Fee<ling  forever  the  fountains  that  make  thee 
Father  of  Nile  and  Creator  of  Egypt ! 
The  years  of  the  world  are  engraved  on  thy  forehead  ; 
Time's  morning  blush'd  red  on  thy  first-fallen  snows; 
Y6t  lost  in  the  wilderness,  nameless,  unnoted, 
Of  Man  unbeholden,  thou  wert  not  till  now. 

2    Knowledge  alone  is  the  being  of  Nature, 
Giving  a  soul  to  her  manifold  features. 
Lighting  through  paths  of  the  primitive  darkness 
The  footsteps  of  Truth  and  the  vision  of  S5ng. 
Knowledge  has  born  thee  anew  to  Creation, 
And  long-baffled  Time  at  thy  baptism  rejoices. 
Take,  then,  a  name,  and  be  fill'd  with  existence,     ^ 
Yea,  be  exultant  in  sovereign*  glory. 
While  from  the  hand  of  the  wandering  poet 
Drops  the  first  garland  of  song  at  thy  feet. 

*Sce  BioKniphical  Sketch,  p.  287.— 'Sovereign  (siiv'ci  In). 


KILIMANDJAKO.  463 

3    Floating  aiOne,  on  the  flood  of  thy  making, 
Through  Africa's  mystery,  silence,  and  fire, 
Lo !  in  my  palm,  like  the  Eastern  enchanter, 
I  dip  from  the  waters  a  magical  mirror. 
And  thou  art  reveal'd  to  my  purified  vision. 
I  see  thee,  supreme  in  the  midst  of  thy  co-mates, 
Standing  alone  'twixt  the  Earth  and  the  Heavens, 
Heir  of  the  Sunset  and  Herald  of  Morn. 
Zone  above  zone,  to  thy  shoulders  of  granite, 
The  climates  of  Earth  are  display'd,  as  an  index. 
Giving  the  scope  of  the  Book  of  Creation. 

4.  There,  in  the  gorges  that  widen,  descending 
From  cloud  and  from  cold  into  summer  eternal, 
Gather  the  threads  of  the  ice-gender'd  fountains — 
Gather  to  riotous  torrents  of  crystal. 
And,  giving  each  shelvy  recess  where  they  dally 
The  blooms  of  the  North  and  its  evergreen  turfage, 
Leap  to  the  land  of  the  lion  and  lotus  ! 
There,  in  the  wondering  airs  of  the  Tropics 
Shivers  the  Aspen,  still  dreaming  of  cold  : 
There  stretches  the  Oak,  from  the  loftiest  ledges, 
His  arms  to  the  far-away  lands  of  his  brothers. 
And  the  Pine-tree  looks  down  on  his  rival  the  Palm. 

5    Bathed  iu  the  tenderest  purple  of  distance, 
Tinted  and  sliadow'd  by  pencils  of  air. 
Thy  battlements  hang  o'er  the  slopes  and  the  forest* 
Seats  of  the  gods  in  the  limitless  ether, 
Looming  sublimely  aloft  and  afar. 
Above  them,  like  folds  of  imperial  ermine. 
Sparkle  the  snow-fields  that  furrow  thy  fore/icad — 
Desolate  realms,  inaccessible,  silent. 
Chasms  and  caverns  where  Day  is  a  stranger, 
Garners  where  storeth  his  treasures  the  Thunder, 
The  Lightning  his  falchion,  bis  arrows  the  Hail ! 

6.  Sovereign  Mountain,  thy  brothers  give  welcome : 
They,  the  baptized  and  the  crowned  of  ages. 
Watch-towers  of  Continents,  altars  of  Earth, 
Welcome  thee  now  to  their  mighty  assembly. 


PH  NATU»NAL     KIKIII     RKADKK. 

Mont  Blanc,'  in  the  roar  of  his   iiad  avalanches, 

Hails  thy  accession  ;  superb  Orizaba,* 

Belted  with  beech,  and  ensandall'd  vvitii  palm — 

Chimborazo,'  the  lord  of  the  regions  ot  noonday— 

Mingle  their  sounds  in  magnificent  choms 

With  greeting  august  from  the  Pillars  of  Heaven, 

Who,  in  the  urns  of  the  Indian  Ganges, 

Filter  the  snows  of  their  sacred  dominions, 

Unmark'd  with  a  footprint,  unseen  but  of  God. 

7    Lo !  unto  each  is  the  seal  of  his  lordship, 

Nor  qnestion'd  the  right  that  his  majestj  giveth 

Each  in  his  awful  supremacy  forces 

Worship  and  reverence,  wonder  and  joy. 

Absolute  all,  yet  in  dignity  varied, 

None  has  a  claim  to  the  honors  of  story, 

Or  the  superior  splendors  of  song, 

Greater  than  thou,  in  thy  mystery  mantled — 

Thou,  the  sole  monarch  of  African  mountains, 

Father  of  Nile  and  Creator  of  Egypt !         Bayard  Taylok. 

Bayard  Taylor,  tlie  noted  American  traveler  and  poet,  was  born  in  the  vil- 
lage of  Kennett  Square,  t'hester  county,  Pennsylvania,  on  the  Uth  of  January, 
1825.  At  the  age  of  seventeen  lie  became  an  apprentice  in  a  printing  office  iu 
Westchester;  and  about  the  same  period  wrote  verses,  which  appeared  in  the 
"New  York  Mirror"  and  "Graham's  Magazine."  lie  collected  and  published 
a  small  volume  of  his  jwems  in  1844,  and  visited  Europe  tlie  same  year.  Having 
passed  two  years  in  Great  Britain,  Switzerland,  Germany,  Italy,  and  France,  iie 
returned  home;  published  an  account  of  his  travels  under  the  title  of  "  Views 
a-Foot;"  settled  in  New  York;  and  in  1848,  soon  after  publishin;;  "  Khymes  ot 
Travel,"  secured  a  place  as  a  permanent  writer  for  "The  Tribune,"  in  wliich 
journal  the  greater  part  of  his  recent  productions  have  been  first  printed.  He 
visited  California  in  1>^49,  returned  by  the  way  of  Mexico  in  1850,  and  soon  after 
published  his  "  P'.ldorado,  or  Adventures  in  the  Path  of  Empire."  His  "  Book 
of  Romances,  Lyrics,  and  Songs,"  which  appeared  in  1851,  greatly  increased 
his  reputation  as  a  poet.  The  same  year  he  set  ont  on  a  protracted  tour  in  the 
East,  upon  which  he  was  absent  two  years  and  four  months,  traveling  more 
than  fifty  thousand  miles.  His  spirited,  grai)hic,  and  entertaining  iiistory  of  this 
journey  is  given  in  three  works,  entitled  "  A  Journey  to  Central  Africa,"  "The 
Land  of  the  Saracen,"  and  "  hulia,  Loo  Choo,  and  Japan."  "  Poems  of  the 
Orient"  appeared  in  11^54,  embracing  only  such  pieces  as  were  written  while  he 
was  on  his  passage  romiJ  the  world.  Glowing  with  the  warm  light  of  the  East, 
they  contain  passages  "rich,  sensuous,  and  imj>etuous,  as  the  Arab  sings  in 
dreams,"  with  others  gentle,  tender,  and  exqnisit»!ly  motlnlated.  During  the 
fast  two  >iiars  Mr  Taylor  has  traveled  in  the  extreme  U(  rtJi  of  Euroi>e. 

*  Mont  Blaac  (m6iiK  bl6ug').— '  Ori/Aba  (o  n  sSl'  bi)    ■ »  Chiui  bw  tk  //> 


MORNING  HYMN  To  M(^XT  BLANC.         465 


150.  Morning  Hymn  to  Mont  Blanc. 

1     n'AST  thou  a  cliarra  to  stay  the  morning  star 
-11  In  his  steep  course  ? — so  long  he  seems  to  pause 
On  thy  bald,  awful  head,  O  sovereign  Blanc  1 
The  Arve  and  Aveiron  at  thy  base 
Rave  ceaselessly  ;  but  thou,  most  awful  form  ! 
Ilisest  from  forth  thy  silent  sea  of  pines, 
How  silently !     Around  thee  and  above 
Deep  is  the  air  and  dark, — substantial  black, — 
An  ebon  mass;  methinks  thou  piercest  it. 
As  wifli  a  wedge!     But  when  I  look  again, 
It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crystal  shrine, 
Thy  habitation  from  eternity  1 

2.  0  dread  and  silent  mount !     T  gazed  upon  thee, 
Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  l)odily  sense. 
Didst  vanish  from  my  thought :  entranced  in  prayer 
I  worship'd  the  Invisible  alone. 
Yet  like  some  sweet,  beguiling  melody. 
So  sweet,  we  know  not  we  are  listening  to  it, 
Thou,  the  meanwhile,  wast  blending  with  my  thoughts, 
Yea,  with  my  life,  and  life's  own  secret  joy, — 
Till  the  dilating  soul,  enrapt,  transfused, 
Into  the  mighty  vision  passing — there 
As  in  her  natural  form,  swell'd  vast  to  Heaven. 

8.  Awake,  my  soul !  not  only  passive  praise 
Thou  owest — not  alone  these  swelling  tears, 
Mute  thanks,  and  secret  ecstasy.     Awake, 
Voice  of  sweet  song !     Awake,  my  heart,  awake ! 
Green  vales  and  icy  cliffs  all  join  my  hymn. 
Thou  first  and  chief,  sole  sovereign  of  the  vale  i 
Oh  !  struggling  with  the  darkness  all  the  night, 
And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars, 
Or  when  they  climb  the  sky,  or  when  they  sink : 
Companion  of  the  morning-star  at  dawn. 
Thyself,  earth's  rosy  star,  and  of  the  dawn 
Ck)-herald !  wake,  oh  wake !  and  utter  pra'se. 
80    ^ 


4-66  NATIONAL    Flh-ni    UKADKR. 

Who  sank  tliy  sunless  pillars  deep  in  earth  ? 
Who  fili'cl  thy  countenance  with  rosy  light? 
Who  made  thee  parent  of  perpetual  streams  ? 

4.  And  you,  yc  five  wild  torrents  fiercely  glad ! 
Who  call'd  you  forth  from  night  and  utter  death, 
From  dark  and  icy  caverns  call'd  you  forth, 
Down  those  precipitous,  black,  jagged  rocks, 
Forever  shatter':!  and  the  same  forever? 

Who  gave  you  your  mvulnerable  life, 

Your  strength,  your  speed,  your  fuiy,  and  your  joy 

Unceasing  thunder  and  eternal  foam? 

And  who  commanded, — and  the  silence  came, — 

"Here  let  the  billows  stitien,  and  have  rest?" 

5.  Ye  ice-falls !  ye  that  from  the  mountain's  brow 
Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  amain, — 
Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a  mighty  voice, 
And  stopp'd  at  once  amid  their  maddest  plunge ! 
Motionless  torrents  !  silent  cataracts ! — 

Who  made  you  glorious  as  the  gates  of  heaven 
Beneafh  the  keen  full  moon  ?     Who  bade  the  sun 
Clothe  you  wifti  rainbows?     Who  with  living  flowers 
Of  loveliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at  your  feet  ? — 
*'GoD  1"  let  the  torrents,  like  a  shout  of  nations, 
Answer;  and  let  the  ice-plains  echo,  "God!" 

6.  "God!"  sing,  ye  meadow-streams,  with  gladsome  voice 
Ye  pine-groves,  with  your  soft  and  soul-like  sounds  I 
And  thriy,  too,  have  a  voice,  yon  piles  of  snow, 

And  in  their  perilous  fall  shall  thunder,  "  God  !" 
Ye  living  flowers  that  skirt  the  eternal  frost ! 
Ye  wild  goats  sporting  round  the  eagle's  nest ! 
Ye  eagles,  playmates  of  the  mountain-storm  ! 
Ye  lightnings,  the  dread  Arrows  of  the  clouds! 
Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  elements! 
Utter  forth  "  God  !"  and  fill  the  hills  with  praise. 

V.  Once  more,  hoar  mount!  wifh  thy  sky-pointing  peak, 
Oft  from  whose  feet  the  avalanche,  nidieard, 
Shoots  downward,  glitteriii;;  thioiigh  the  \mro.  serene, 


MtUiMNG    HYMN    TO    MONT    BLANC.  4:67 

Into  tile  dcptli  of  clouds  that  veil  thy  breast, — 
Thou,  too,  agaiu,  stupendous  mountain !  thou, 
That,  as  I  raise  my  head,  awhile  bovv'd  low 
In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  base 
Slow-traveling  with  diu)  eyes  suffused  with  tears, 
Solemnly  seeinest,   ike  a  vapory  cloud, 
To  rise  before  me — rise,  oh  ever  rise, 
Rise,  like  a  cloud  of  incense,  from  the  earth! 
Thou  kingly  spirit  throned  among  the  hills, 
Thou  dread  ambassador  from  earth  to  heaven, 
Great  hierarch !  tell  thou  the  silent  sky, 
And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising  sun, 
Earth,  with  her  thousand  voices,  praises  God  ! 

COLERIDGB. 

Samuel  Taylor  Colkridge,  one  of  the  most  imaginative  and  ori(;inal  of 
poets,  remarkable  for  his  colloquial  eloquence  and  metaphysical  and  critical 
powers,  the  youngest  son  of  the  vicar  of  8t.  Mary  Ottery,  in  Devonshire,  Eng- 
land, was  born  at  that  place  in  October,  1772.  Left  an  orphan  in  his  ninth  year, 
he  was  educated  for  seven  years  at  Christ's  Hospital ;  and  in  1791  he  became 
student  of  Jesus  College,  Cambridge.  His  reading,  though  desultory  and  irreg- 
ular, embraced  almost  numberless  books,  especially  on  tlieology,  metaphysics, 
and  |K)etry.  In  1794  was  published  the  drama  called  "  The  Fall  of  Robespierre," 
of  which  the  tirst  act  was  Coleridge's,  and  the  other  two  were  t^ouTHEv's;  and 
tlie  two  poets,  then  entertaining  those  extreme  opinions  which  they  afterward  so 
thoroughly  abandoned,  occupied  themselves  at  Bristol  in  planning  a  new  social 
community,  which  they  were  to  found  in  the  United  States.  At  this  town  and 
elsewhere,  Coleridge  delivered  courses  of  public  lectures,  both  religious  and 
political;  and  he  also  preached  in  Unitarian  pulpits.  In  1795  he  married  Miss 
Fricker,  whase  sister  soon  afterward  became  Mrs.  8outhey;  and  in  the  same 
year  he  became  acquainted  with  Wordsworth.  About  the  same  period  he 
went  to  reside  in  a  cottage  at  Stowey,  Somersetshire,  about  two  miles  from  the 
residence  of  the  latter;  and  the  poets  bound  themselves  in  the  closest  friendsiiip. 
He  here  wrote  some  of  his  most  beautiful  poetry — his  "Ode  on  the  Departing 
Year,"  "  'I'ears  in  Solitude,"  "  France,  an  Ode,"  "  Frast  at  Midnight,"  the  first 
part  of  "Christabel,"  "The  Ancient  Mariner,"  and  his  tragedy  of  "  Remorse.'* 
In  1798  he  went  to  Germany  to  complete  liis  education,  and  resided  for  fourteen 
months  at  Ratzburg  and  GottiJigen.  On  his  return  to  Kngland  he  resided  in  the 
lake  district  near  Soutiiey  and  Wordsworth,  and  contributed  political  articles 
and  |X)ems  for  the  "  Morning  Post"  newspaper,  which  was  followed,  some  years 
later,  by  similar  employment  in  the  "  Courier.'  For  fifteen  months,  in  1804  and 
lyu.j,  he  was  secretary  to  Sir  Alex.\nuer  Ball,  the  governor  of  Malta,  lu  181B 
he  found  a  quiet  and  friendly  home  in  the  house  of  Mr.  Gillman,  surgeon  of 
Highgate,  where,  after  a  residence  of  eighteen  years,  he  died  in  July,  ISM. 
There  both  mind  and  body  were  restored  from  the  excitement  and  ill  health 
laused  by  the  use  of  opinm,  first  taken  in  illness,  and  afterward  used  habitually. 
His  numerous  productions  in  prose  and  verse,  as  well  as  his  unsurpassed  Table- 
Talk.  Iiave  snice  been  published,  proving  a  per|>etuil  delight;  and,  like  Nature, 
liiniiuhun;  «uluecti>  oiadmirution  and  imitatiun  for  the  refined  and  observuiK. 


468  NATIONAL    KIFIH     RKADKK. 


151.  Elements  of  tiik  Swiss  Landscape. 

PASSING  out  through  a  "orest  of  larclies,  whose  dark  verdure 
is  peculiarly  appropriate  to  it,  and  going  up  toward  \hi 
baths  of  Leuk,'  the  interest  of  the  landscape  does  not  at  all 
diminish.  What  a  concentration  and  congregation  of  all  ele- 
ments of  sublimity  and  beauty  are  before  you !  what  surprising 
(Contrasts  of  light  and  shade,  of  form  and  color,  of  softness  and 
ruggedness !  Here  are  vast  heights  above  you,  and  vast  depths 
below,  villages  hanging  to  the  mountain  sides,  green  pasturages 
and  winding  pafhs,  lovely  meadow  slopes  enameled  with  flowers, 
deep  immeasurable  ravines',  torrents  thundering  down  them; 
colossal,  overhanging,  castellated*  reefs  of  granite ;  snowy  peaks 
with  the  setting  sun  upon  them. 

2.  You  command  a  view  far  down  over  the  valley  of  the 
Rhone,  wifli  its  villages  and  castles,  and  its  mixture  of  rich 
farms  and  vast  beds  and  heaps  of  mountain  fragments,  deposited 
by  furious  tSrrents.  What  affects  the  mind  very  powerfully  on 
first  entering  upon  these  scenes,  is  the  deep  dark  blue,  so  in- 
tensely deep  and  overshadowing,  of  the  gorge  at  its  upper  end, 
and  at  the  magnificent  proud  sweep  of  the  granite  barrier,  which 
there  shuts  it  in,  apparently  without  a  passage.  The  mountains 
rise  like  vast  supernatural  intelligences  taking  a  material  shape, 
and  drawing  around  themselves  a  drapery  of  awful  grandeur; 
there  is  a  fSreAead  of  power  and  majesty,  and  the  likeness  of  a 
kingly  cro\N  n  above  it. 

3.  Amidst  all  the  grandeur  of  this  scenery,  I  remember  to 
have  been  in  no  place  more  delighted  with  the  profuse  richness, 
delicacy,  and  beauty  of  the  Alpine  flowers.  The  grass  of  the 
meadow  slopes  in  the  gorge  of  the  Dala  had  a  depth  and  powei 
of  verdure,  a  clear,  delicious  greenness,  that  in  its  effect  upon 
the  mind  was  like  that  of  the  atmosphere  in  the  brightest  au- 
v.ninnal  morning  of  the  year ;  or  rather,  perhaps,  like  the  colors 
of  the  sky  at  sunset.  There  is  no  such  grass-color  in  the  world 
as  that  of  these  mountain  meadows.     It  is  just  the  same  at  the 


ILeuk  (loik),  a  village  and  celebrated  batliiiig-placo  of  Switzerland, 
«aaton  of  Valais,  on  tlie  llhonu,  and  5000  feet  above  the  sra.  — 'Ci«'  tel 
Uted,  invlosed  :  a^lurned  with  tunetn  and  battlements,  like  a  uistle. 


BSLEMENTS    of    THK    SWISS    I.ANDSCAPE.  4G9 

verge  of  the  ice  oceans  of  Mont  Blanc.  It  makes  you  think  of 
one  of  the  points  chosen  by  the  Sacred  Poet  to  illustrate  the 
divine  benevolence  (and  I  had  almost  said,  no  man  can  truly  un- 
derstand why  it  was  chosen,  who  has  not  traveled  in  Switzer- 
land), "  Who  maJceth  the  grass  to  grow  ujoon  the  mountains^ 

4.  And  then  the  flowers,  so  modest,  so  lovely,  yet  of  such 
derp  ex'quisite  hue,  enameled  in  the  grass,  sparkling  amidst  it, 
"  a  starry  multitude,"  underneafh  such  awful  brooding  mountain 
forms  and  icy  precipices — how  beautiful !  All  that  the  poets 
have  ever  said  or  sung  of  daisies,  violets,  snow-drops,  king-cups, 
primroses,  and  all  modest  flowers,  is  here  outdone  by  the  mute 
poetry  of  the  denizens  of  these  wild  pastures.  Such  a  meadow 
slope  as  this,  watered  wifti  pure  rills  from  the  glaciers,  would 
have  set  the  mind  of  Edwards'  at  work  in  contemplation  on  the 
beauty  of  holiness.  He  has  connected  these  meek  and  lowly 
flowers  with  an  image,  which  none  of  the  poets  of  this  world 
have  ever  thought  of. 

5.  To  him  the  divine  beauty  of  holiness  "  made  the  soul  like 
a  field  or  garden  of  God,  wifli  all  manner  of  pleasant  flowers% 
all  pleasant,  delightful,  and  undisturbed ;  enjoying  a  sweet  calir 
and  the  gentle,  vivifying  beams  of  the  sun.  The  soul  of  a  true 
Christian  appears  like  such  a  little  white  flower  as  we  see  in  the 
spring  of  the  year ;  low  and  humble  on  the  ground ;  opening  its 
bosom  to  receive  the  pleasant  beams  of  the  sun's  glory ;  rejoic- 
ing, as  it  were,  in  a  calm  rapture ;  difi*using  around  a  sweet  fra- 
grancy ;  standing  peacefully  and  lovingly  in  the  midst  of  other 
flowers  round  about ;  all  in  like  manner  opening  their  bosoms 
to  drink  in  the  light  of  the  sun." 

6.  Very  likely  such  a  passage  as  this,  coming  from  the  soul 
of  the  great  theologian  (for  this  is  the  poetry  of  the  soul,  and 

'  Jonathan  Edwards,  one  of  the  first  metaphysicians  of  his  age,  au- 
thor of  an  "Essay  on  the  Freedom  uf  the  Will,"  was  born  in  East 
Windsor,  Connecticut,  October  6th,  1703.  He  entered  Yale  College  in 
his  thirteenth  year  ;  graduated  with  the  highest  honors  ;  and  continued 
his  residence  in  the  institution  for  two  years,  for  the  study  of  the  min- 
istry. He  first  preached  to  a  congregation  in  New  York,  in  his  nine 
teenth  year.  He  preached  in  Northampton  twenty-three  years ;  was 
missionary  to  the  Indians  near  Stockhridge,  Mass. ,  for  six  years  ;  was 
installed  president  of  Princeton  College  in  January,  1758 ;  and  died  oo 
the  22d  of  March  of  the  same  year. 


470  NATIONAL    FIFrH    UKADKR. 

not  of  the  artificial  sentiment,  nor  of  the  mere  vvorsliip  of  na- 
cure),  will  .mam  to  many  persons  like  violets  in  the  hosom  of  a 
glac'ior.  l>ut  no  poet  ever  described  the  meek,  nioilost  flowers 
"O  beautifully,  rejoichu/  in  a  caba  rupture.  Jonathan  li^luards 
himself,  wifli  his  grand  views  of  sacred  theology  and  history,  his 
living  piety,  and  his  great  experience  in  the  deep  things  of  Go«k 
was  like  a  mountain  glacier,  in  one  respect,  as  the  "  par'ent  <>i" 
perpetual  streams,"  that  are  then  the  deepest,  when  all  the  foun 
tains  of  the  world  are  the  driest;  like,  also,  in  another  respect, 
that  in  climbing  his  theology  you  get  very  near  to  heaven,  and 
are  in  a  very  pure  and  bracing  atmosphere;  like,  again,  in  this, 
that  it  requires  much  spiritual  labor  and  discipline  to  surmount 
his  heights,  and  some  care  not  to  fall  into  the  creuass'es  ;  and 
like,  once  more,  in  this,  that  when  you  get  to  the  top,  you  have 
a  vast,  wide,  glorious  view  of  God's  great  plan,  and  see  things  iu 
their  chains  and  connections,  which  before  you  only  saw  scpa 
rate  and  piecemeal.  G.  B.  CiiEKVRa. 

George  B.  Ciieever  was  born  at  Hallowell,  Maine,  on  tlie  ITtliof  April,  1807 
He  was  graduated  at  Bovvdoin  College,  September,  1825,  studied  tlieology  at 
Andover,  was  licensed  to  preach  iu  18:«),  and  was  first  settled  as  pastor  over 
Howard-street  church  of  Salem,  Massachusetts.  He  went  to  Europe  in  1830, 
where  he  spent  two  years  and  six  mouths.  In  1839  he  became  pustor  of  the 
Allen-street  church.  New  York,  and  in  1846  of  the  Church  of  the  Puritans,  a 
position  wliich  lie  still  retains.  In  1844  he  again  visited  Kurojie  for  a  year.  Dr. 
CiiEEVEa  is  celebrated  £is  an  orator.  He  has  a  keen  analytical  mind,  and  com- 
bining fancy  with  logic,  succeeds  equally  well  in  allegory  and  in  argumentation 
flis  numerous  and  valuable  works  have  gained  him  an  enviable  position  in 
American  literature.  He  heis  written  extensively  for  our  ablest  reviews  and 
perioilicals.  He  was  a  valuable  correspondent  of  the  "  New  York  Observer," 
when  in  Europe,  and  editor  of  the  "  New  York  F.vangelist"  during  1845  and 
1846.  He  is  now  a  contributor  of  "  The  Independent."  His  "  Lectures  on  Pil- 
grim's Progress,"  published  in  1843,  ami  "  Voices  of  Nature,"  185-2,  are  among 
tlie  ablest  of  his  productions,  and  indicate  most  truly  his  mode  and  range  ot 
thought.  "Wanderings  of  a  Pilgrim  in  the  Shadow  of  Mont  Blanc  and  the 
Yungfrau  Alp,"  from  which  the  above  extract  is  taken,  published  in  1846,  on 
his  return  from  his  second  visit  to  Europe,  met  with  a  very  favorable  reception. 
As  a  writer  he  is  always  clear  and  unimpassioned  ;  he  sees  and  hears  and  de- 
scribes, never  falling,  through  excess  of  feeling,  into  confusion,  or  tigure,  or  re- 
dundancy of  expression.  Tiie  reader  is  strengthened  by  his  iwwer,  cahueil  b\ 
his  tran«iuil!ity,  and  incited  to  self-denying  and  lofty  views,  by  liis  earnest  an<' 
vigorous  presentation  of  truth. 


152.  Alpine  Scenery. 
I,        A  BOVE  me  are  the  Alps — most  glorious  Alps — 
Ijl  The  palaces  of  Nature,  whose  vjift  walls 


ALPINK    SCKNEIiY.  471 

Have  pinnacled  in  clouds  their  snowy  scalps, 

And  throLcd  Eternity  in  icy  lialls 

Of  cold  sublimity,  where  forms  and  falls 
Tlie  avalanche — the  thunderbolt  of  snow  ! 

All  that  expands  the  spirit,  yet  appalls, 
Gather  around  these  summits,  as  to  show 
How  Earth  may  pierce  to  Heaven,  yet  leave  vain  man  below 

2       Lake  Lei II an'  woos  me  wifh  its  crystal  face, — 

The  minor,  where  the  stars  and  mountains  view 
The  stillness  of  their  aspect  in  each  trace 

Its  clear  depth  yields  of  their  far  height  and  hue. 
There  is  too  much  of  man  here,  to  look  through, 
With  a  fit  mind,  the  might  which  I  behold; 

But  soon  in  me  shall  loneliness  renew 
Thoughts  hid,  but  not  less  cherish'd  than  of  old, 
Ere  mingling  with  the  herd  had  penn'd  me  in  their  fold. 

.3.      Clear,  placid  Leman !  thy  contrasted  lake 

With  the  wide  world  I've  dwelt  in  is  a  thing 
Which  warns  me,  with  its  stillness,  to  forsake 
Earth's  troubled  waters  for  a  purer  spring. 
This  quiet  sail  is  as  a  noiseless  wing 
To  waft  ine  from  distraction ;  once  I  loved 

Torn  ocean's  roar ;  but  thy  soft  murmuring 
Sounds  sweet  as  if  a  sister's  voice  reproved. 
That  I  with  stern  delights  should  e'er  have  been  so  moved. 

4.      It  is  the  hush  of  night ;  and  all  between 

Thy  margin  and  the  mountains,  dusk,  yet  clear, 
Mellow'd  and  mingling,  yet  distinctly  seen. 

Save  darken'd  Jura,'  whose  capp'd  heights  appear 

'  L6'  man  or  Geneva,  a  crescent-shaped  lake  of  Europe,  between  Swit- 
zerland and  the  Sardinian  States.  Length,  45  miles ;  breadth,  from  1 
io  9i  miles  ;  and  greatest  depth,  984  feet.  Its  waters,  which  are  never 
entirely  frozen  over,  have  a  peculiar  deep-blue  color,  are  very  transpa- 
rent, and  contain  a  great  variety  of  fish.  Steam  navigation  was  intro- 
duced in  1823. — 'Jura  (j6'ra),  a  chain  of  mountains  which  separat^^ 
France  from  Switzerland,  extending  for  180  miles  in  the  form  of  a  curve, 
from  S.  to  N.  E.,  with  a  mean  breadth  of  30  miles.  One  of  the  culmi 
nating  points,  and  the  highest,  is  Mount  Molessoii  6588  feet  above  the 
leyol  of  tlie  uoa. 


472  NA.TIONAL    KIFIH    RICADKR. 

Pf ecipitoiv ly  steep;  and  drawing  near, 
There  breathes  a  living  fragrance  Irom  the  shore, 

Of  flowers  yet  fresh  wifti  childhood;  on  the  ear 
Drops  the  light  drip  of  the  suspended  oar, 
Or  chirps  the  grasshopper  one  good-night  carol  inSre. 

6.     lie  is  an  evening  reveler,  who  makes 

His  life  an  infancy,  and  sings  his  fill ; 
At  intervals,  some  bird  from  out  the  brakes 
Stalls  into  voice  a  moment,  then  is  still. 
There  seems  a  floating  whisper  on  the  hill ; — 
But  that  is  fancy ;  for  the  starlight  dews 

All  silently  their  tears  of  love  distill, 
Weeping  themselves  away  till  they  infuse 
Deep  into  Nature's  breast  the  spirit  of  her  huea. 

6.  Ye  stars!  which  are  the  poetry  of  heaven. 

If,  in  your  bright  leaves,  we  would  read  the  fate 
Of  men  and  empires, — 'tis  to  be  forgiven, 

That  in  our  aspirations  to  be  great. 

Our  destinies  o'erleap  their  mortal  state, 
And  claim  a  kindred  with  you ;  for  ye  are 

A  beauty  and  a  mystery,  and  create 
In  us  such  love  and  reverence  from  afar. 
That  fortune,  fame,  power,  life,  have  named  themselves  a  *tai 

7.  All  heaven  and  earth  are  still, — though  not  in  sleep. 

But  breathless,  as  we  grow  when  feeling  most ; 
And  silent,  as  we  stand  m  thoughts  too  deep : — 

All  heaven  and  earth  are  still !     From  the  high  host 

Of  stars  to  the  luU'd  lake,  and  mountain  coast. 
All  is  concenterM  in  a  life  intense, 

Where  not  a  beam,  nor  air,  nor  leaf  is  lost, 
But  hath  a  part  of  being,  and  a  sense 
Of  that  which  is  of  all  Creator  and  Defense. 

8       The  sky  is  changed  !  and  such  a  change !     0  Night, 
And  Storm,  and  Darkness,  ye  are  wondrous  string, 

Yet  lovely  in  your  strength,  as  is  the  light 
Of  a  dark  eye  in  woman  !     Far  along. 
From  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling  crags  among, 

Lciips  the  live  thunder! — not  from  one  louo  cloud. 


CICKKO    AT    TIIK    GKAVK  .OK    AKLIH.MKDKS.  '178 

But  every  mountain  now  hath  found  a  tongue ; 
And  Jura  answers,  through  her  mi?ty  shroud, 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  to  her  aloud ! 

0       And  this  is  in  the  nioht. — Most  ijjlorious  nio'ht! 

o  o  O 

Thou  wert  not  sent  for  slumber !  let  me  be 
A  sharer  in  thy  fierce  and  for  delight, — 

A  portion  of  the  tempest  and  of  thee  ! 

How  the  lit  lake  shines, — a  phosphoric  sea — 
And  the  big  rain  comes  dancing  to  the  earth ! 

And  now  again  'tis  black — and  now,  the  glee 

Of  the  loud  hills  shakes  wifh  its  mountain  mirth. 

As  if  they  did  rejoice  o'er  a  young  earthquake's  birth. 

10.  Sky,  mountains,  river,  winds,  lake,  b'ghtnings!  ye. 

With  night,  and  clouds,  and  thunder,  and  a  soul 
To  make  these  felt  and  feeling,  well  may  be 

Things  that  have  made  me  watchful : — the  far  roll 

Of  your  departing  voices  is  the  knoll 
Of  what  in  me  is  sleepless, — if  I  rest. 

But  where,  of  ye,  O  tempests!  is  the  goal? 
Are  ye  like  those  within  the  humatl  breast  ? 
Or  do  ye  find,  at  length,  like  eagles,  some  high  nest? 

11.  The  morn  is  up  again,  the  dewy  morn. 

With  breath  all  incense,  and  with  cheek  all  bloom, 
Laughing  the  clouds  away  Avith  playful  scorn, 
And  living  as  if  earth  contained  no  tomb, — 
And  glowing  into  day :  we  may  resume 
The  march  of  our  existence;  and  thus  I, 

Still  on  thy  shores,  fair  Leman !  may  find  room 
And  food  for  meditation,  nor  pass  by 
Much,  that  may  give  us  pause,  if  ponder'd  fittingly. 

Lord  Byron.* 


w 


153.   Cicero  at  the  Gbave  of  AEcnrMEDEs. 
HILE  Cicero'  was  questor'  in  Sicily, — the  first  public  ofiice 
which  he  ever  held,  and  the  only  one  to  which  he  was 


'  8ee  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  292. — 'Ciceko,  see  p.  143,  note  4. — 
•  QuAs'  tor.  an  officer  in  ancient  Home  who  had  the  management  of  the 
pTiblic  tTCiisnre  ;  the  receiver  of  taxes,  tributes,  &c. 


474  NATIONAL    FIFTH    KKADKK. 

then  eligible,  being  but  just  thirty  years  old  (for  the  Roniun 
laws  re(juired  for  one  of  the  humblest  of  the  great  oflices  of 
suite  the  very  same  age  which  oui  American  Constitution  re- 
quires for  one  of  the  highest),  be  paid  a  visit  to  Syracuse,'  then 
among  the  greatest  cities  of  the  world. 

2.  The  magistrates  of  the  city,  of  course,  waited  on  him  at 
once,  to  olFor  tluir  services  in  showing  him  the  lions  of  th 
place,  and  requested  him  to  specify  any  thing  which  he  woul  I 
like  particiilaily  to  see.  Doubtless,  they  supposed  that  he  would 
ask  immediately  to  be  conducted  to  some  cue  of  their  magnifi- 
cent temples,  that  he  might  behold  and  admire  those  splendid 
works  of  art  with  which — notwithstanding  that  Marcellns'^  had 
made  it  his  glory  to  carry  not  a  few  of  them  away  with  hiin  for 
the  decoration  of  the  Imperial  City — Syracuse  still  abounded, 
and  which  soon  after  tempted  the  cupidity,  and  fell  a  prey  to 
the  rapacity,  of  the  in 'famous  Verfes.' 

3.  Ur,  ha})ly,  they  may  have  thought  that  he  would  be  curious 
to  see  and  examine  the  ear  of  Dionysiiis,''  as  it  was  called, — a 

'  Syracuse  (sfr'akuz).  a  fortified  city'  of  Sicily.  Its  noble  harbor  is 
admirably  adapted  for  a  comineroial  emporium  ;  but  its  trade  is  nov 
very  limited.  This  famous  city  of  antiquity  was  foumled  b.  c.  736.  by  v» 
colony  from  Corintli,  governed  alternately  as  a  republic  or  under  kings  ; 
unsuccessfully  besieged  by  the  Athenians  b.  c.  414,  and  taken  by  the 
Romans  b.  c.  212.  and  after  a  lengthened  siege  by  the  Saracens,  who 
partially  destroyed  it;  but  it  was  chiefly  ruined  by  the  earthquake  of 
1693  — '  Marcus  Claudius  Marcellus^  a  distinguished  Roman  general, 
who,  when  the  Sicilians  declared  in  favor  of  Hannibal,  marched  against 
Syracuse,  and  after  a  siege  of  nearly  a  year's  duration,  took  and  sacked 
the  city,  cairying  the  statues  of  the  Syracusan  temples  to  Rome.  Two 
years  later,  b.  c.  210,  he  was  chosen  consul.  He  was  famous  for  his 
victories  over  Hannibal  and  the  Gauls,  and  was  slain  in  a  battle  against 
the  former,  b.  c.  208. — '  Vkrrks,  an  infamous  pro-pra^tor  in  Sicily, 
where  he  remained  for  nearly  three  years  (73-71  b.  c.)  His  extortions 
and  exactions  in  the  island  have  become  notorious  through  the  cele- 
brated orations  of  Cickro. — *  Dionysuis  (dl  o  nf'she  us)  the  Elder,  tyrant 
of  Syracuse,  was  born  b.  c.  430.  His  reign  began  when  he  was  twenty- 
five,  and  continued  without  intenuption  for  thirty-eight  j'CJirs.  Aa 
able  and  successfid  general,  he  was  fond  of  literature  and  the  arts  ; 
adoriuid  Syracuse  with  splendid  temples  and  other  public  edifices :  and 
just  before  his  death,  as  a  poet,  oore  away  the  first  jjrize  at  the  Lena^a. 
with  a  play  called  "The  Uuiisom  of  Hector."  In  his  latter  years  he 
became  extremely  6uspic:(  us,  even  of  hi*  best  frieud^,  and  a<lopted  most 


ClCEKt    AT   THE    GKAVP:   OF    ARCHIMEDES.  475 

huge  cavern,  cut  out  of  tlie  soiid  rock  in  the  shape  of  a  human 
ear,  two  hundred  and  fifty  feet  long  and  eighty  feet  high,  in 
which  that  execrable  tyrant  confined  all  persons  who  came  with- 
in the  range  of  his  suspicion  ;  and  which  was  so  ingeniously  con- 
trived and  constructed,  that  Dionysius,  by  applying  his  own  ear 
to  a  small  hole,  where  the  sounds  were  collected  as  upon  a  tym- 
panum, could  catch  every  syllable  that  was  uttered  in  the  cavern 
boluAv,  and  could  deal  out  his  proscription  and  his  vengeance 
accordingly,  upon  all  who  might  dare  to  dispute  his  authority, 
or  to  complain  of  his  cruelty. 

4.  Or  they  may  have  imagined,  perhaps,  that  he  would  be 
impatient  to  visit  at  once  the  sacred  fountain  of  Arethusa,  and 
the  seat  of  those  Sicilian  Muses  whom  Virgil'  so  soon  after  in- 
voked in  commencing  that  most  inspired  of  all  uninspired  com- 
positions, wjjich  Pope  has  so  nobly  paraphrased  in  his  glowing 
and  glorious  Eclogue — the  Messiah.  To  their  great  astonish- 
ment, however,  Cicero's  first  request  was  that  they  would  take 
him  to  see  the  tomb  of  Ar chime' des? 

5.  To  his  own  still  greater  astonishment,  as  we  may  well  be- 
lieve, they  told  him  in  reply,  that  they  knew  nothing  about  the 
tomb  of  Archime'des,  and  had  no  idea  where  it  was  to  be  found, 
antl  they  even  positively  denied  that  any  such  tomb  was  still  re- 
maining among  them;  But  Cicero  understood  perfectly  well 
what  he  was  talking  about.'    lie  remembered  the  exact  descrip- 

excessive  {precautions  to  guard  against  tretichery.  He  became  a  sort  of 
type  of  tyrant,  in  its  worst  sense  ;  though  his  wickedness  and  cruelty 
were  undoubtedly  much  exaggerated  by  ancient  writers. — '  Virgil,  see 
p.  215,  note  2. — '  Archimedes  (ar  ki  m^'  d^z),  the  most  celebrated  of  an- 
cient ge«>meters.  was  bov!i  at  Syracuse,  about  291  b.  c.  Having  acquired 
at  an  early  age  all  the  knowledge  that  could  be  obtained  in  his  native 
city,  he  visited  B^gypt,  from  whence,  after  seven  years,  he  returned  to 
Syracuse,  ladened  with  the  intellectual  spoils  of  the  East,  and  devoted 
his  time  to  the  cultivation  of  the  mathematical  and  physical  sciences 
In  t!i«  war  which  the  Romans  carried  on  against  King  Hiero,  of  Sicily, 
to  whom  Archimedes  was  related  on  his  father's  side,  several  engines 
prepared  by  the  latter  were  so  effectual  in  the  defense  of  Syracuse 
against  Marcellus  as  to  convert  the  siege  into  a  blockade,  and  delay 
the  taking  of  the  city  for  several  months.  In  212  b  c,  when  Syracuse 
was  taken,  he  was  killed  by  the  Roman  soldiers,  beii.g  at  the  time  in- 
tent ujMin  a  mathematical  problem.  There  are  excellent  French  aud 
Rnglisli  translations  of  his  iiunw   )us  works. 


476  NATIONAL    FIFTH    RKAJ)KK. 

tioti  of  the  tomb.  He  remembered  the  very  verses  which  had 
been  inscribed  on  it.  He  remembered  the  spliere  and  the 
cylinder  which  Archimedes  had  himself  requested  to  have 
wrought  upon  it,  as  the  chosen  emblems  of  his  eventful  life. 
And  the  great  orator  forthwith  resolved  to  make  search  for  it 
himself. 

6.  Accordingly,  he  rambled  out  into  the  place  of  their  anciert 
sepulchres,  and,  after  a  careful  investigation,  he  came  at  last  to  a 
spot  overgrown  wifh  shrubs  and  bushes,  where  presently  he  de- 
scried the  top  of  a  small  column  just  rising  above  the  branches. 
Upon  this  little  column  the  sphere  and  the  cylinder  were  at 
length  found  carved ;  the  inscription  was  painfully  deciphered, 
and  the  tomb  of  Archime'des  stood  revealed  to  the  reverent 
homage  of  the  illustrious  Roman  qucstor. 

V.  This  was  in  the  year  76  before  the  birth  of  our  Saviour. 
Archimedes  died  about  the  year  212  before  Christ..  One  hun- 
dred and  thirty -six  years,  only,  had  thus  elapsed  since  the  death 
of  this  celebrated  person,  before  his  tombstone  was  buried  up  be- 
neafli  briers  and  brambles,  and  before  the  place,  and  even  the 
existence  of  it,  were  forgotten  by  the  magistrates  of  the  very 
city  of  which  he  was  so  long  the  proudest  ornament  in  peace, 
and  the  most  effective  defender  in  war. 

8.  What  a  lesson  to  human  pride,  what  a  commentary  on 
human  gratitude,  was  here !  I  do  not  learn,  however,  that  Cice 
ro  was  cured  of  his  eager  vanity  and  his  insatiate  love  of  fame 
by  this  "  turn"  among  the  Syracusan  tombs.  He  was  then  only 
just  at  the  threshold  of  his  proud  career,  and  he  went  back  to 
pursue  it  to  its  bloody  end,  wifti  unabated  zeal,  and  with  an  am- 
bition only  extinguishable  with  his  life. 

9.  And  after  all,  how  richly,  how  surpassingly,  was  this  local 
ingratitude  and  neglect  made  up  to  the  memory  of  ArchimeMes 
himself,  by  the  opportunity  which  it  afforded  to  the  greatest 
orator  of  the  greatest  empire  of  antiquity,  to  signalize  his  appre- 
ciation and  his  admiration  of  that  wondei-ful  genius,  by  going 
out  personally  into  the  ancient  grave-yards  of  Syracuse,  and 
wifti  the  robes  of  office  in  their  newest  gloss  around  him,  to 
Hcarch  for  his  tomb  and  to  do  honor  to  his  ashes  I  The  greatest 
orator  of  Imperial  Rome  anticipating  the  part  of  Old  Mortality 
upon  the  grave-stone  of  the  great  mathcnmtic'an  and  moihanic 


of  antiquity !    This,  surely,  is  a  picture  for  mechanics  in  all  ages 
to  contem'plate  with  a  proud  satisfaction  and  delight. 

R.   0.    WiNTHROP. 

Robert  C,  Winthrop,  a  tlescendant  of  one  of  the  oldest  and  most  eminent 
of  New  England  families,  was  born  in  Boston,  on  the  12th  of  3Iay,  1809.  He 
pursued  his  preparatory  studies  at  the  Boston  Latin  School,  and  graduated  at 
Harvard,  in  1828.  For  the  next  three  years  he  studied  law  with  Daniel  Wkb- 
BTEiu  He  became  a  member  of  the  Massachusetts  Legislature  in  1834,  and 
speaker  of  its  House  of  Representatives  from  1838  till  his  election  to  Congress  in 
1840.  He  was  speaker  of  the  national  House  of  Representatives  for  the  sessions 
of  1848-9.  He  was  appointed  to  succeed  Webster  in  the  Senate  in  1850,  when 
the  latter  was  Secretary  of  State.  His  claims  to  literary  distinction  are  derived 
from  his  able  addresses  and  si)eeches,  a  volume  of  which  was  published  in  1852. 
He  has  since  published  liis  address  before  the  alumni  of  Har\'ard  in  1852 ;  a  lec- 
ture on  Algernon  Sidney,  before  the  Boston  Mercantile  Library  Association  in 
1853 ;  and  in  the  same  season,  his  lecture  on  Archimedes  mid  Frmiklin,  from 
whicJi  the  above  extract  is  taken. 


154.  Messiah. 


1.  fTlHE  Saviour  comes,  by  ancient  bards  foretold: 
J-   Hear  him,  ye  deaf,  and  all  ye  blind,  behold ! 
He  from  thick  films  shall  purge  the  visual  ray, 
And  on  the  sightless  eyeball  pour  the  day : 

'Tis  he  the  obstructed  pafhs  of  sound  shall  clear, 
And  bid  new  music  charm  the  unfolding  ear : 
The  dumb  shall  sing,  the  lame  his  crutch  forego, 
And  leap  exulting,  like  the  bounding  roe. 
No  sigh,  no  murmur,  the  wide  world  shall  hear; 
From  every  face  he  wipes  oflf  every  tear. 
In  adamantine  chains  shall  Death  be  bound, 
And  Hell's  grim  tyrant  feel  the  eternal  wound. 

2.  As  the  good  shepherd  tends  his  fleecy  care, 
Seeks  freshest  pasture  and  the  purest  air, 
Explores  the  lost,  the  wandering  sheep  directs. 
By  day  o'ersees  them,  and  by  night  protects, 
The  tender  lambs  he  raises  in  his  arms. 
Feeds  from  his  hand,  and  in  his  bosom  warma; 
Thus  shall  mankind  his  guaidiun  care  engage, 
The  promised  father  of  the  future  ige. 

3.  No  more  shall  nation  against  nation  rise, 
Noi  ardent  warriors  meet,  wth  hateful  eyefl^ 


478  \Ario\AL   Kirih   kkadkk. 

Nor  fields  with  irlcjuninir  steel  be  cover'd  c  er, 
Tiic  brazen  trninpets  kindle  rage  no  more; 
But  nsek'ss  lances  into  scythes  shall  bend, 
And  the  broad  falchion'  in  a  plowshare  end. 
Then  palaces  shall  rise  ;  the  joyful  son 
Shall  finish  what  his  short-lived  sire  begun; 
Their  vines  a  shadow  to  their  race  shall  yield, 
And  the  same  hand  that  sovv'd  shall  reap  the  field 

4.  The  swain  in  barren  deserts,  wifli  snrprise, 
Sees  lilies  spring,  and  sudden  verdure  rise ; 
And  starts,  amid  the  thirsty  wilds  to  hear 
New  falls  of  water  murmuring  in  his  ear. 
On  rifted  rocks,  the  dragon's  late  abodes. 
The  green  reed  trembles,  and  the  bulrush  nods. 
Waste  sandy  valleys,  once  perplex'd  with  thorn, 
The  spiry  fir  and  shapely  box  adorn  : 
To  leafless  shrubs  the  flowering  palms  succeed, 
And  odorous  myrtle  to  the  noisome  weed. 

6.  The  lambs  wifh  wolves  shall  graze  the  verdant  mead 
And  boys  in  flowery  bands  tlie  tiger  lead ; 
The  steer  and  lion  at  one  crib  shall  meet, 
And  harmless  serpents  lick  the  pilgrim's  feet. 
The  smilinof  infant  in  his  hand  shall  take 
The  crested  basilisk  and  speckled  snake, 
Pleased,  the  green  luster  of  the  scales  survey. 
And  with  their  forky  tongues  sliall  innocently  play. 

6.  Rise,  crown'd  wifh  light,  imperial  Salem,'  rise ! 
Exalt  thy  towery  head,  and  lift  thy  eyes ! 
See  a  long  race  thy  spacious  courts  adorn ; 
See  future  sons  and  daughters,  yet  unborn, 
In  crowding  ranks  on  every  side  arise. 
Demanding  life,  impatient  for  the  skies ! 
See  barbarous  nations  at  thy  gates  attend, 
"Walk  in  thy  light,  and  in  thy  temple  bend ; 
See  thy  bright  altars  thrOng'd  with  prostrate  kings, 


Falchion  (fir  ch&n).— •  tNilem,  Jerusalem 


8CKNT-.    FROM    CATILINE.  47ii 

And  heap'd  with  products  of  Sabeiin'  springs ! 
For  thee  Idiime's^  spicy  forests  blow, 
And  seeds  of  gold  in  Ophir's^  mountains  glow. 
See  heaven  its  sparkling  portals  wide  display, 
And  break  upon  thee  in  a  Hood  of  day ! 

V.  No  more  the  rising  sun  shall  gild  the  morn, 
Nor  evening  Cynthia"  till  her  silver  horn; 
But  lost,  dissolved,  in  thy  superior  rays. 
One  tide  of  glory,  one  unclouded  blaze, 
O'erflow  thy  courts :  the  Light  himself  shall  shine 
Reveal'd,  and  God's  eternal  day  be  thine ! 
The  seas  shall  waste,  the  skies  in  smoke  decay, 
Rocks  fall  to  dust,  and  mountains  melt  away ; 
But  fix'd  His  word,  His  saving  power  remains? 
Thy  realm  forever  lasts,  thy  own  Messiah  reigns  I 

P0PK.» 


155.    Scp:xe  from  CAnLiNE. 
In  the  Senate. 
Cicero.  Our  long  dispute  must  close.     Take  one  proof  more 
Of  this  rebellion. — Lucius  Catiline^ 

'  Sa  hh'  an,  pertaining  to  Saba,  in  Arabia,  celebrated  for  producing  ai'- 
omatic  plants. — '  I  du'  me,  or  Id  u'  mte  a,  an  ancient  country  of  western 
Asia,  comprising  the  mountainous  tract  on  the  E.  side  of  the  great  val- 
leys of  El-Ghor  and  El-Arabah,  and  W.  and  S.  "VV.  of  the  Dead  Sea,  with 
a  portion  of  Arabia. — '  0'  phir,  an  ancient  country  mentioned  in  the 
Scriptures,  and  renowned  from  the  earliest  times  for  its  gold.  Some 
suppose  it  to  be  the  same  as  the  modern  Sofala  ;  and  others  conjecture 
it  was  situated  in  the  East  Indies. — *Cyn'  thi  a,  the  moon,  a  name  given 
to  Diana,  derived  from  Mount  Cynthus,  her  binhplace.  See  p.  337, 
note  3. — 'See  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  227. — 'Lucius  Sergius  Catiline, 
the  descendant  of  an  ancient  and  patrician  family  in  Rome,  whose  youtli 
and  manhood  were  stained  by  every  vice  and  crime.  He  was  pra;tor  in 
B.  c.  68,  was  governor  of  Africa  during  the  following  year,  and  returned 
to  Rome  in  66,  to  sue  for  the  consulship.  Disqualified  for  a  candidate, 
by  an  impeachment  for  oppression  in  his  province,  and  frustrated  in  a 
conspiracy  to  kill  the  new  consuls,  he  organized  the  extensive  consi)ivacy 
in  which  the  scene  here  given  occurs.  The  history  of  this  conspiracy, 
wliich  ended  by  the  death  of  Catiline,  in  a  decisive  battle  fought  early 
in  62,  has  been  written  by  Sallust.  He  was  a  man  of  great  mental  and 
physical  powers,  though  apparently  entirely  destitute  of  moral  qualities. 


480  NATIONAL     KIKIH     UKADKK. 

Has  been  coniiiianded  to  attend  the  senate. 

He  dares  not  coiue.     I  now  demand  your  votes ! — 

Is  he  condemn'd  to  exile  ? 

[Catiline  co7n€s  in  fiastily^  and  flings  himself  on  the 
bench  ;  all  the  senators  go  over  to  the  other  side. 

Cicero  [turning  to  Catiline].     Here  I  repeat  the  charge,  to 
gdds  and  men, 
or  treasons  manifold  ; — that,  but  this  day, 
He  has  received  dispatches  from  the  rebels ; 
That  he  has  leagued  with  deputies  from  Gaul 
To  seize  the  province ;  nay,  has  levied  troops. 
And  raised  his  rebel  standard  : — that  but  now 
A  meeting  of  conspirators  was  held 
Under  his  roof,  with  mystic  rites,  and  oaflis, 
Pledo:ed  round  the  body  of  a  murder'd  slave. 
To  these  he  has  no  answer. 

Catiline  [rising  calmly].  Conscript  fathers ! 
I  do  not  rise  to  waste  the  night  in  words ; 
Let  that  plebeian  talk ;  'tis  not  my  trade ; 
But  here  I  stand  for  right — let  him  show  proofs — 
For  Roman  right ;  though  none,  it  seems,  dare  stand 
To  take  their  share  with  me.     Ay,  cluster  there. 
Cling  to  your  masters;  judges,  Romans — slaves! 
His  charge  is  false ;  I  dare  him  to  his  proofs, 
fou  have  my  answer.     Let  my  actions  speak ! 

Cic.  [interrupting  him].  Deeds  shall  convince  you !     Has  the 
traitor  done  ? 

Cat.  But  this  I  will  avow,  that  I  have  scornVl, 
And  still  do  scorn,  to  hide  my  sense  of  wrong : 
Who  brands  me  on  the  forehead,  breaks  my  sz<?ord, 
Or  lays  the  bloody  scourge  upon  my  back. 
Wrongs  me  not  half  so  much  as  he  who  shuts 
The  gates  of  honor  on  me, — turning  out 

The  Roman  from  his  birthright ;  and  for  what  ?   [Looking  round 
To  fling  your  offices  to  every  slave ; 
Vipers  that  creep  where  man  disdains  to  climb ; 
And  having  wound  their  loaflisome  track  to  the  top 
Of  this  huge  moldering  monument  of  Rome, 
Hung  hissing  at  tlu*  nobler  iiian  bejow. 


SCEKK    FROM    CATlLIN'li.  48J 

Cic.  Tliis  is  liis  answer!     Must  I  bring  more  proofs? 
Fathers,  you  know  tliere  live?  not  one  of  us, 
But  lives  in  peril  of  his  midnight  st^ord. 
Lists  of  proscription  have  been  handed  round, 
fn  which  your  general  properties  are  made 
Your  murderer's  hire. 

[A  ay  is  heard  without — ^^  More  2^^'isoners  P^  An  officer 
enters  with  letters  for  Qiceylo  \  who^  after  glancincj  at 
them,  sends  them  round  the  Senate.  Catiline  is  strony- 
hj  iterturhed?^ 

Cic.  Fathers  of  Rome !     If  man  can  be  convinced 
By  proof,  as  clear  as  daylight,  here  it  is ! 
Look  on  these  letters !     Here's  a  deep-laid  plot 
To  wreck  the  provinces :  a  solemn  league, 
Made  with  all  form  and  circumstance.     The  time 
Is  desperate, — all  the  slaves  are  up  ; — Eome  shakes ! 
The  heavens  alone  can  tell  how  near  our  graves 
We  stand  even  here  I — The  name  of  Catiline 
Is  foremost  in  the  league,     lie  was  their  king. 
Tried  and  convicted  traitor!  go  from  Home! 

Cat.  [Imufjhtihj  risinf/].  Come,  consecrated  lictors,  from  your 
thrones:  [To  the  Senate. 

fling  down  your  scepters : — take  the  rod  and  ax, 
A.nd  make  the  murder  as  you  make  the  law. 

Cic.  [interrupting  him\.  Give  up  the  record  of  his  banishment 

[To  an  officer. 
[The  officer  gives  it  to  the  Consul.] 

Cat.  [indignantlg].  Banish'd  from  Rome !     What's  banish'd, 
but  set  free 
From  daily  contact  of  the  things  I  ioaflie? 
*' Tried  and  convicted  traitor!"     Who  says  this? 
Who'll  prove  it,  at  his  peril,  on  my  head? 
Banish'd — I  thank  you  for't.     It  breaks  my  chain ! 
I  held  some  slack  allegiance  till  this  hour — 
But  n')w  niy  si^^ord's  my  own.     Smile  on,  my  lords  I 
I  scorn  ti)  count  what  feeling?,,  wither'd  hopes, 
Strong  provocations,  bitter,  burning  wrongs, 
I  have  within  mv  lieart's  hot  cells  shut  up, 

21 


4:82  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

To  leave  yon  in  your  lazy  dignities. 

But  here  I  stand  and  scoff  you ;  here  I  fling 

Hatred  and  full  defiance  in  your  face. 

Your  Consul's  merciful. — For  this,  all  thanks. 

He  dai  es  not  touch  a  hair  of  Catiline. 

[Tlie  Consul  reads]  : — "  Lucius  Sergius  Catiline :  oy  tlic 
decree  of  the  Senate,  you  are  declared  an  enemy  and 
alien  to  the  State,  and  banished  from  the  territory  of 
the  Commonwealth." 

The  Consul.  Lictors,  drive  the  traitor  from  the  temple ! 

Cat.  [furious].  "  Traitor !"   I  go — but  I  return.     This — trial ! 
Here  I  devote  your  Senate !     I've  had  wrongs 
To  stir  a  fever  in  the  blood  of  age, 
Or  make  the  infant's  sinews  strong  as  steel. 
This  day's  the  birth  of  sorrows ! — this  hour's  work 
Will  breed  proscriptions  : — look  to  your  hearths,^  my  lords ! 
For  there,  henceforth,  shall  sit,  for  household  gods, 
Shapes  hot  from  Tartarus  !^ — all  shames  and  crimes ! 
Wan  Treachery,  wifli  his  thirsty  dagger  drawn ; 
Suspicion,  poisoning  his  brother's  cup ; 
Naked  Rebellion,  with  the  torch  and  ax, 
Making  his  wild  sport  of  your  blazing  thrones  ; 
Till  Anarchy  comes  down  on  you  like  Night, 
And  Massacre  seals  Rome's  eternal  grave  ! 

[The  Senators  rise  in  tumult  and  cry  out, 
Go,  enemy  and  parricide,  from  Rome! 

Cic.  Expel  him,  lictors !     Clear  the  Senate-house  ! 

[They  surround  hinu 
Cat.  [struggling  through  them].  I  go,  but  not  to  leap  the  guli 
alone. 
I  go — but  when  I  come,  'twill  be  the  burst 
Of  ocean  in  the  earthquake — rolling  back 


'Hearths  (hSvths). — 'Tir'tarus,  in  Homer's  Hiad,  a  place  beneaCh 
iho  earth,  as  far  below  Hades  as  heaven  is  above  the  earth,  and  closed 
by  iron  gates.  Later  poets  describe  this  as  the  place  in  the  lower  world 
in  which  the  spirits  of  wicked  men  are  punished  for  their  crimes  ;  and 
sometimes  they  use  the  name  as  svnonymous  with  Hades,  or  tlu>  lower 
world  in  general. 


SELIiCT   PASSAGES    IN    VI'.I^PK.  483 

In  swift,  and  mountainous  ruin.     Fare  you  well ! 
You  build  my  funeral-pile,  but  your  best  blood 
Shall  quench  its  flame.     Back,  slaves!     [2'o  the  lictors.] — I  will 
return  !  '[He  rushes  out ;  the  scene  closes. 

GeORGB  CllOLY 


156.  Select  Passages  in  Vekse. 
I. 
Voice  of  the  Wind. — llENur  Taylor. 
The  wind,  when  first  he  rose  and  went  abroad 
Through  the  waste  region,  felt  himself  at  fault. 
Wanting  a  voice,  and  suddenly  to  earth 
Descended  wifli  a  wafture  and  a  swoop, 
Where,  wandering  vol'atile,  from  kind  to  kind, 
He  woo'd  the  several  trees  to  give  him  one. 
First  he  besought  the  ash  ;  the  voice  she  lent 
Fitfully,  with  a  free  and  lashing  change. 
Flung  heie  and  there  its  sad  uncertainties: 
The  aspen  next ;  a  flutter'd  frivolous  twitter 
Was  her  sole  tribute  :  from  the  willow  came, 
So  long  as  dainty  summer  dress'd  her  out, 
A  whispering  sweetness ;  but  her  winter  note 
AVas  hissing,  dry,  and  reedy  :  lastly  the  pine 
Did  he  solicit;  and  from  her  he  drew 
A  voice  so  constant,  soft,  and  lowly  deep, 
That  there  he  rested,  welcoming  in  her 
A  mild  memorial  of  the  ocean  cave 
Where  he  was  born. 

II. 
Ministrations  of  Nature. — Coleridge. 
With  other  ministrations  thou,  0  Nature, 
Bealest  thy  wandering  and  distemper'd  child ! 
rhou  pourc'.t  on  him  thy  soft  influences, 
Thy  sunny  liues,  fair  forms,  and  breathing  sweets. 
Thy  melodirs  of  woods,  and  winds,  and  waters; 
rill  he  relent,  and  can  no  more  endure 

'See  p  454.  note  1. 


4:84  NATIONAL   FIITU    KEADEK. 

To  be  a  jarring  and  discordant  thing 
Amid  this  general  dance  and  minstrelsy; 
But,  bursting  into  tears,  wins  back  his  way, 
His  angry  spirit  heal'd  and  harmonized 
By  the  benignant  touch  of  love  and  beauty. 

III. 
Moonlight. — Shakspeare. 
How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this  bank  I 
Here  we  will  sit,  and  let  the  sounds  of  music 
Creep  in  our  ears :  soft  stillness,  and  the  night, 
Become  the  touches  of  sweet  harmony. 
Sit,  Jessica.'     Look  how  the  floor  of  heaven 
Is  tliick  inlaid  with  patens'  of  bright  go  hi. 
There's  not  the  smallest  orb  which  thou  behold'st. 
But  in  his  motion  like  an  auQ-el  sino-s, 
Still  quiring  to  the  young-eyed  cherubins : 
Such  harmony  is  in  immortal  souls ; 
But  while  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay 
Doth  grossly  close  it  in,  we  can  not  hear  it. 

IV. 

The  Bells  of  Ostend. — Bowles. 
No,  I  never,  till  life  and  its  shadows  shall  end, 
Can  forget  the  sweet  sound  of  the  bells  of  Ostend  !* 
The  day  set  in  darkness,  the  wind  it  blew  loud, 
And  rung  as  it  pass'd  through  each  murmuring  shroud. 
My  forehead  was  wet  wifli  the  foam  of  the  spray, 
My  heait  sigh'd  in  secret  for  those  far  away ; 
When  slowly  the  morning  advanced  from  the  east, 
The  toil  and  the  noise  of  the  tempest  had  ceased : 
The  peal  from  a  land  I  ne'er  saw,  scem'd  to  say, 
"  Let  the  stranger  forget  every  sorrow  to-day  !" 
Yet  the  short-lived  emotion  was  mingled  with  pain — 
I  thought  of  those  eyes  I  should  ne'er  see  again; 

'  JhssiCA,  daughter  of  Siiylock,  in  the  "  Merchattt  of  Venice." — *  PAt'- 
un,  the  plate  or  vessel  on  which  the  consecrated  hread  is  placed  ;  a  plate. 
-'  Os  tend',  a  fortified  seaport  town  of  Belgium,  province  of  West  Flan- 
ders, on  the  North  Sea.     It  is  regularly  and  neatly  built,  being  a  watcf 
hig-pl.-Jfe  son)('tirne«  resorted  to  by  the  Rtdgian  court. 


SELECT   PASSAGES   IN   VERSE.  485 

1  thought  of  the  kiss,  the  last  kiss  which  I  gave, 
And  a  tear  of  regret  fell  unseen  on  the  wave ; 
I  thought  of  the  schemes  fond  afifection  had  plann'd, 
Of  the  trees,  of  the  towers,  of  my  own  native  land. 
But  still  the  sweet  sounds,  as  they  swell'd  to  the  air, 
Seem'd  tidings  of  pleasure,  though  mournful  to  bear, 
And  I  never,  till  life  and  its  shadows  shall  end. 
Can  forget  the  sweet  sound  of  the  bells  of  Ostend ! 

V. 

Music. — Shakspeare. 

Do  but  note  a  wild  and  wanton  herd. 

Or  race  of  youthful  and  unhandled  colts, 

Fetching  mad  bounds,  bellowing  and  neighing  loud, 

Which  is  the  hot  condition  of  their  blood ; 

If  they  but  hear  perchance  a  trumpet  sound, 

Or  any  air  of  music  touch  their  ears. 

You  shall  perceive  them  make  a  mutual  stand. 

Their  savage  eyes  turn'd  to  a  modest  gaze. 

By  the  sweet  power  of  music :  therefore,'  the  poet 

Did  feign  that  Orpheus^  drew  trees,  stones,  and  floods ; 

Since  naught  so  stockish  hard,  and  full  of  rage, 

But  music  for  the  time  doth  change  his  nature. 

The  man  that  hath  no  music  in  himself. 

Nor  is  not  moved  with  concord  of  sweet  sounds, 

Is  fit  for  treasons,  stratagems,  and  spoils ; 

The  motions  of  his  spirit  are  dull  as  night, 

And  his  affections  dark  as  Erebus :' 

Let  no  such  man  be  trusted. 

VI. 

Music. — Shelley. 
My  soul  is  an  enchanted  boat. 
Which,  like  a  sleeping  swan  doth  float 
Upon  the  silver  waves  of  thy  sweet  ringing ; 


^lliSrg'fire. — 'Orpheus,  see  p.  423,  note  1. — ^Erebus,  son  of  Chaos, 
in  heathen  mythology.  The  name  signifies  darkness,  and  is  therefore 
applied  to  th  e  iark  and  gloomy  space  under  the  earth ,  through  v/hich 
the  shades  pass  into  Hades. 


J 


4:86  NATIONAL   FirrH   READER. 

And  thine  cloth  like  an  angel  sit 

Beside  the  helm,  conducting  it, 
While  all  the  winds  wifli  melody  are  ringing. 
It  seems  to  float  ever,  forever 
Upon  that  many  winding  river. 
Between  mountains,  woods,  abysses, 
A  paradise  of  wildernesses ! 

VII. 

Pastoral    Music. — Byron. 
Hark  !  the  note. 
The  natural  music  of  the  mountain  reed — 
For  here  the  patriarchal  days  are  not 
A  pastoral  fable — pipes  in  the  liberal  air, 
Mix'd  with  the  sweet  bells  of  the  sauntering  herd : 
My  soul  would  drink  those  echoes.     Oh  that  I  were 
The  viewless  spirit  of  a  lovely  sound, 
A  living  voice,  a  breathing  harmony, 
A  bodiless  enjoyment,  born  and  dying 
With  the  blest  tone  which  made  me ! 


157.  Hymns. 


THE  discovery  of  a  statue,  a  vase,  or  even  of  a  cameo,  inspires 
art-critics  and  collectors  wiih  enthusiastic  in'dustry,  to  search 
whether  it  be  a  copy  or  an  original,  of  what  age,  and  by  what 
artist.  But  I  think  that  a  heart-hymn,  sprung  from  the  soul's 
deepest  life,  and  which  is,  as  it  were,  the  words  of  the  heart  in 
those  hours  of  transfiguration  in  which  it  beholds  God,  and 
heavenly  angels,  is  nobler  by  far  than  any  old  simulacrum,'  or 
carved  ring,  or  heathen  head,  however  ex'quisite  in  lines  and 
feature ! 

2.  To  trace  back  a  hymn  to  its  source,  to  return  upon  the 
path  along  which  it  has  trodden  on  its  mission  of  mercy  through 

*  Pastoral,  relating  to  shepherds.  Pastoral  music  and  pastoral  poetry 
arc  such  as  shepherds  indulge  in  ;  and  the  term  is  applied  for  a  simple 
style,  suitable  to  the  comprehension  of  shepherds  and  others  of  little 
Intellectual  refinement. — 'Sim  u  li'crum,  the  likeness,  resemblance,  or 
representation  of  any  thing  ;  an  image,  picture,  figure,  effigy,  or  statue 


HYMNS.  487 

gei: orations,  to  witness  its  changes,  its  obscurations  and  reap- 
pearances, is  a  work  of  tlie  truest  religious  enthusiasm,  and  far 
surpasses  in  importance  the  tracing  of  the  ideiis  of  mere  art. 
For  hymns  are  the  exponents  of  the  inmost  piety  of  the  Clmrch. 
They  are  crystalline  tears,  or  blossoms  of  joy,  or  holy  prayers, 
or  incarnated  raptures.  They  are  the  jewels  which  the  Church 
has  worn;  the  pearls,  the  diamonds  and  precious  stones,  formal 
into  amulets  more  potent  against  sorrow  and  sadness  than  tl> 
most  famous  charms  of  wizard  or  magician.  And  he  who  knowa 
the  way  that  hymns  flowed,  knows  where  the  blood  of  piety  ran, 
and  can  trace  its  veins  and  arteries  to  the  very  heart. 

3.  No  other  composition  is  like  an  experimental  hymn.  It  is 
not  a  mere  poetic  impulse.  It  is  not  a  thought,  a  fancy,  a  feel- 
ing threaded  upon  words.  It  is  the  voice  of  experience  speak- 
ing from  the  soul  a  few  words  that  condense  and  often  represent 
a  whoie  life.  It  is  the  life,  too,  not  of  the  natural  feelings  grow- 
ing wild,  but  of  regenerated  feeling,  inspired  by  God  to  a  heav- 
enly destiny,  and  making  its  whv  through  troubles  and  hin 
drances,  through  joys  and  victories,  dark  or  light,  sad  or  serene, 
yet  always  struggling  forward.  Forty  years  the  heart  may  have 
been  in  battle,  and  one  verse  shall  express  the  fruit  of  the  whole. 

4.  One  great  hope  may  come  to  fruit  only  at  the  end  of  many 
years,  and  as  the  ripening  of  a  hundred  experiences.  As  there 
be  flowers  that  drink  up  the  dews  of  spring  and  summer,  and 
feed  upon  all  the  rains,  and,  only  just  before  the  winter  comes, 
burst  forth  into  bloom,  so  is  it  with  some  of  the  noblest  blossoms 
of  the  soul.  The  bolt  that  prostrated  Saul  gave  him  the  ex- 
ceeding brightness  of  Christ;  and  so  some  hymns  could  never 
have  been  written  but  for  a  heart-stroke  that  well-nigh  crushed 
out  the  life.  It  is  cleft  in  two  by  bereavement,  and  out  of  the 
rift  comes  forth,  as  by  resurrection,  the  form  and  voice  that  shall 
never  die  out  of  the  world.  Angels  sat  at  the  grave's  mouth  ; 
and  so  hymns  are  the  angels  that  rise  up  out  of  our  griefs  and 
darkness  and  dismay. 

5.  Thus  born,  a  hymn  is  one  of  those  silent  ministers  wdiich 
God  sends  to  those  who  are  to  be  heirs  of  salvation.  It  enters 
into  the  tender  'mag  nation  of  childhood,  and  casts  down  upon 
the  chambers  of  its  thought  a  holy  radiance  which  shall  never 
quite  depart.     It  goes  with  the  Christian,  singing  to  him  all  the 


4-88  NATIONAL    FIFTH    KEADFll. 

way,  as  if  it  were  the  airy  voice  of  some  guardian  spirit.  WlioTi 
darkness  of  trouble,  settling  fast,  is  shutting  out  every  star,  a 
hymn  bursts  through  and  brings  light  like  a  torch.  It  abides 
by  our  side  in  sickness.  It  goes  forth  with  us  in  joy  to  syllabic 
that  joy. 

C.  And  thus,  after  a  time,  we  clothe  a  hymn  wifli  the  memo- 
ries and  associations  of  our  own  life.  It  is  garlanded  with  flow- 
ers which  grew  in  our  hearts.  Lorn  of  the  experience  of  on; 
mind,  it  becomes  the  unconscious  record  of  many  minds.  We 
sang  it,  perhaps,  the  morning  that  our  child  died.  We  sang 
this  one  on  that  Sabbath  evening  when,  after  ten  ycai's,  the  fam- 
ily were  once  more  all  together.  There  be  hymns  that  were 
sung  while  the  mother  lay  a-dying;  that  were  sung  when  the 
child,  just  converted,  was  filling  the  family  with  the  joy  ol 
Christ  new-born,  and  laid,  not  now  in  a  manger,  but  in  a  heart. 
And,  thus  sprung  from  a  wondrous  life,  they  lead  a  life  yet  juore 
wonderful.  When  they  first  come  to  us  they  are  like  the  single 
strokes  of  a  bell  ringing  down  to  us  from  above ;  but,  at  length, 
a  single  hymn  becomes  a  whole  chime  of  bells,  mingling  and 
discoursing  to  us  the  harmonies  of  a  life's  Christian  experience. 

Y.  And  oftentimes,  when  in  the  mountain  country,  far  from 
noise  and  interruption,  we  wrought  upon  these  hymns'  for  our 
vacation  tasks,  we  almost  forgot  the  living  world,  and  were  lifted 
up  by  noble  lyrics  as  upon  mighty  wings,  and  went  back  to  tlie 
days  when  Christ  sang  with  his  disciples,  when  the  disciples 
sang  too,  as  in  our  churches  they  have  almost  ceased  to  do. 
Oh !  but  for  one  moment  even,  to  have  sat  transfixed,  and  {? 
have  listened  to  the  hymn  that  Christ  sang  and  to  the  singing! 
But  the  olive-trees  did  not  hear  his  murmured  notes  more  clear- 
ly than,  rapt  in  imagination,  we  have  heard  them ! 

8.  There,  too,  are  the  hymns  of  St.  Ambrose'  and  many 

*  ♦'-  Plymouth  Collection  of  Hymns  and  Tunes,"  published  in  1855.—- 
'  St.  Ambrosb,  a  celebrated  Christian  father,  was  probably  born  at 
Tr6ves,  in  340.  After  a  careful  education  at  Rome,  he  practiced  with 
great  success,  as  an  advocate,  at  Milan;  and  about  370  was  appointed 
prefect  of  the  provinces  of  Lij^tnia  and  ilCniilia,  whose  seat  of  govern- 
ment was  Milan.  He  was  appointed  IM.^hop  of  Milan  in  074  ;  and  fnial- 
ly  acquired  so  nuich  inHiieiice,  tl.at  after  the  nias.sacre  of  Thesalonica 
Ui  300,  ho  refused  the  Emperor  7  iiKor  ^sius  admission  t  >  tlie  Church  ol 


THE   PASSIONS.  489 

others,  that  rose  up  like  birds  in  the  earl}-  centuries  and  have 
come  flying  and  singing  all  the  way  down  to  us.  Their  wing  is 
untired  yet,  nor  is  the  voice  less  sweet  now  than  it  was  a  thou- 
sand years  ago.  Though  they  sometimes  disappeared,  they 
never  sank ;  but^  as  engineers  for  destruction  send  bombs'  that, 
rising  high  up  in  wide  curves,  overleap  great  spaces  and  drop 
down  in  a  distant  spot,  so  God,  in  times  of  darkness,  seems  to 
have  caught  up  these  hymns,  spanning  long  periods  of  time,  and 
letting  them  fall  at  distant  eras,  not  for  explosion  and  wounding, 
but  for  healing  and  consolation. 

9.  There  are  crusaders'  hymns,  that  rolled  forth  their  truths 
upon  the  oriental  air,  while  a  thousand  horses'  hoofs  kept  time 
below,  and  ten  thousand  palm-leaves  whispered  and  kept  time 
above!  Other  hymns,  fulfilling  the  promise  of  God  that  His 
saints  should  mount  up  wifli  wings  as  eagles,  have  borne  up  the 
sorrows,  the  desires,  and  the  aspirations  of  the  poor,  the  op- 
pressed, and  the  persecuted,  of  Huguenots,  of  Covenanters,  and 
of  Puritans,  and  winged  them  to  the  bosom  of  God. 

10.  In  our  own  time,  and  in  the  familiar  experiences  of  daily 
life,  how  are  hymns  mossed  over  and  vine-clad  wifh  domestic 
associations !  One  hymn  hath  opened  the  morning  in  ten  thou- 
sand families,  and  dear  children  with  sweet  voices  have  charmed 
the  evening  in  a  thousand  places  with  the  utterance  of  another. 
Nor  do  I  know  of  any  steps  now  left  on  earth  by  which  one  may 
so  soon  rise  above  trouble  or  weariness  as  the  verses  of  a  hymn 
and  the  notes  of  a  tune.  And  if  the  angels,  that  Jacob  saw, 
sang  when  they  appeared,  then  I  know  that  the  ladder  which 
ho  beheld  was  but  the  scale  of  divine  music  let  down  from 
heaven  to  earth.  H.  W.  Beecher.' 


158.  The  Passions. 

1.  ITTHEN  Music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young, 
Vt     While  yet  in  early  Greece  she  sung, 
The  Passions  oft,  to  hear  her  shell, 

Milan  for  a  period  of  eight  mouths,  and  then  caused  him  to  perform  a 
public  penance.  Ambrose  was  a  man  of  eloquence,  firmness,  and  abili- 
ty. The  best  edition  of  his  works  is  that  of  tlie  Benedictines,  Paris, 
IG8G  and  1G90. — '  Bomb  (bum). — 'See  Biograpliical  Sketch,  p.  71. 


490  NATIONAL   FIFril    READER. 

TlirOiig'd  around  her  magic  cell, — 
Exulting,  trembling,  raging,  fainting, 
Posscss'd  beyond  the  Muse's  painting  : 
By  turns,  they  felt  the  glowing  mind 
Disturb' d,  delighted,  raised,  refined ; 
Till  once,  'tis  said,  when  all  were  fired, 
Fill'd  wifli  fury,  rapt,  inspired. 
From  the  supporting  myrtles  round 
They  snatch'd  her  instruments  of  sound; 
And,  as  they  oft  had  heard  apart 
Sweet  lessons  of  her  forceful  art, 
Each — for  Madness  ruled  the  hour — 
Would  prove  his  own  expressive  power. 

2.  First,  Fear  his  hand,  its  skill  to  try, 

Amid  the  chords  bewilder'd  laid  ; 
And  back  recoil'd,  he  knew  not  why, 

Even  at  the  sound  Iiimself  had  made. 
Next  Anger  rush'd — his  eyes  on  fire, 

In  lightnings  own'd  his  secret  stings : 
In  one  rude  clash  he  struck  the  lyre. 

And  swept,  with  hurried  hands,  the  strings. 
With  woful  measures,  wan  Despair — 

Low  sullen  sounds ! — his  grief  beguiled ; 
A  solemn,  strange,  and  mingled  air; 

'Twas  sad,  by  fits — by  starts,  'twas  wild. 

3.  But  thou,  0  Hope  !  with  eyes  so  fair, 

What  was  thy  delighted  measure  ? 
Still  it  whisper'd  promised  pleasure, 
An("  bade  the  lovely  scenes  at  distance  hail  I 
Slill  would  her  touch  the  strain  prolong; 
And,  from  the  rocks,  the  woods,  the  vale. 

She  call'd  on  Echo  still  through  all  her  s6ng ; 
And  where  her  sweetest  theme  she  chose, 
A  soft  responsive  voice  was  heard  at  every  close ; 
And  Hope,  enchanted,  smiled,  and  waved  her  golden  hair. 

4.  And  longer  had  she  sung — but,  wifli  a  frown. 

Revenge  impatient  rose. 
llo  threw  his  blood-stani'd  sword  in  thunder  down; 


THE   r ASSIGNS.  491 

.  And,  with  a  withering  look. 
The  war-denouncing  trumpet  took, 
And  blew  a  blast  so  loud  and  dread. 
Were  ne'er  prophetic  sounds  so  full  of  woes; 
And  ever  and  anon,  he  beat 
The  doubling  drum  with  furious  heat : 
And  though,  sometimes,  each  dreary  pause  between, 
Dejected  Pity,  at  his  side. 
Her  soul-subduing  voice  applied, 
Ye  still  he  kept  his  wild  unalter'd  mien ; 
Whi.e  each  strain'd  ball  of  sight  seem'd  bursting  from  his  head. 

5.  Thy  numbers.  Jealousy,  to  naught  were  fix'd ; 

Sad  proof  of  thy  distressful  state ! 
Of  difFerinor  themes  the  vecrino:  sons^  was  mixM ; 

And  now  it  courted  Love — now,  raving,  call'd  on  Hatk. 

With  eyes  upraised,  as  one  inspired, 

Pale  Melancholy  sat  retired ; 

And,  from  her  wild,  sequester'd  seat, 

In  notes,  by  distance  made  more  sweet, 
Pour'd  through  the  mellow  horn  her  pensive  soul; 
And,  dashing  soft  from  rocks  around, 
Bubbling  runnels  join'd  the  sound  : 
Through  glades  and  glooms  the  mingled  measure  stole , 
Or  o'er  some  haunted  streams,  with  fond  delay 

(Round  a  holy  cahn  diffusing. 

Love  of  peace,  and  lonely  musing), 
In  hollow  murmurs  died  away. 

6.  But,  oh !  how  alter'd  was  its  sprightly  tone. 

When  Cheerfulness,  a  nymph  of  healthiest  hue, 

Her  bow  across  her  shoulder  flung, 
Her  buskins  gemm'd  with  morning  dew. 

Blew  an  inspiring  air,  that  dale  and  thicket  rung, — 
y  The  hunter's  call,  to  Faun  and  Dryad  known ! 

The  oak-crown'd  sisters,  and  their  chaste-eyed  queen, 
Satyrs,  and  sylvan  boys,  were  seen, 
Peeping  from  forth  their  alleys  green : 

Brown  Exercise  rejoiced  to  hear ; 
And  Sport  leap  d  up,  and  seized  his  beecheo  spear. 


492  NATIONAL    KIITII    HEADER. 

7.  Last  came  Joy's  ecstatic  trial : — 

He,  wi^;h  viny  crown,  advancing, 
First  to  the  lively  pipe  his  hand  addrcss'd ; 

But  soon  he  saw  the  brisk  awakening  viol. 
Whose  sweet  entrancing  voice  he  loved  the  Dcst 
They  would  have  thought,  who  heard  the  strain, 
They  saw  in  Tempo's'  valo  her  native  maids, 

Amid  the  festal-sounding  shades. 
To  some  unwearied  minstrel  dancing; 
While,  as  his  flvinof  fino;ers  kiss'd  the  strinors, 
Love  framed  with  Mirth  a  gay  fantastic  round — 
Loose  were  her  tresses  seen,  her  zone  unbound — 
And  he,  amid  his  frolic  play. 
As  if  he  would  the  charming  air  repay. 
Shook  thousand  odors  from  his  dewy  wings. 

Collins. 

William  Collixs,  one  of  tlie  most  interesting  and  exqnisite  of  Englisli  poets, 
WttS  bora  at  Chichester  on  Christinas-ilay,  17-jn.  He  was  educated  at  Win- 
chester and  Magdalen  College,  <Jxrord.  JJefore  leaving  college  he  luiblished  the 
"Oriental  Eclogues,"  whicii,  to  the  disgrace  of  the  university  and  the  Jilerary 
public,  were  wholly  neglected.  In  17-14  he  came  to  London  as  a  literary  ad- 
venturer, and  about  two  years  later  |)uljlished  his  "Odes,"  and  inaile  the  ac- 
quaintance of  Dr.  JouNsoN,  who  held  him  in  the  highest  esteem.  His  life  in 
the  metropolis  was  irregular,  and,  until  the  death  of  an  uncle,  vvlio  left  him 
a  legacy  of  X2()0(),  was  one  of  continual  hardship.  On  the  receipt  of  this  little 
fortune,  he  repaid  Milleii,  the  hooksellei*,  the  loss  sustained  by  the  publication 
of  his  neglected  "Odes,"  which  were  afterward  destined  to  become  innnortal 
Unhappily,  the  seeds  of  disease  and  occasional  insanity  had  been  too  deeiily  sown 
in  Ills  tbrmer  poverty  to  be  eradicated,  and  after  a  short  sojourn  in  France,  ho 
parsed  through  the  doors  of  a  lunatic  asylum  to  his  early  home,  where,  in  care 
of  his  sister,  he  died,  in  1750,  at  the  early  age  of  thirty-six.  His  ai>pearance  wad 
manly,  his  conversation  elegant,  his  views  extensive,  hisilisposition  cheertui,  and 
his  morals  pure.  He  was  a  man  of  extensive  literature,  and  of  vigorous  faculties. 
Tlie  "Oriental  Eclogues"  are  written  in  a  clear,  correct  style,  and  they  charm 
by  their  figurative  language  and  descriptions,  the  simplicity  and  Ijeautv  of  their 
dialogues  and  sentiments,  and  their  musical  veniiticalion.  No  poet  has  been 
more  happy  in  the  use  of  metaphors  and  |)ei-sonificalion.  Collins"  "  Odes"  art' 
unsurp;j  vsi-d  by  any  thing  of  the  same  species  of  composition  in  the  Englifih 
languaiv,  and  that  to  the  "  Pa.ssious"  is  a  perfect  master-piece  ol  poetical  di>- 
scription. 


•Tempo  (tSm'pi),  a  valley  cf  European  Turkcj',  in  the  N.  E.  of 'Ibci*- 
saly.  between  the  moun'uiiiis  cf  Olympus  on  the  N.,  and  Os.>a  on  the  & 
n^o  beauties  of  its  scene  t  are  much  i-elebruted  by  ancient  writers. 


493 

159.  Alexander's  Feast. 
1.  'rpWAS  at  the  royal  feast,  for  Persia  won, 
-*-  By  Philip's  warlike  son:' 

Aloft,  in  warlike  state, 
TiiG  godlike  licro  sate, 

On  his  imperial  throne. 
His  valiant  peers  were  placed  aronnd, 
Their  brows  witii  roses  and  with  myrtles  bound; 

So  should  desert  in  arms  be  crown'd. 
The  lovely  Thais^  by  his  side 
Sat,  like  an  eastern  blooming  bride. 
In  flower  of  youth  and  beauty's  pride. 
Happy,  happy,  happy  pair! 
Xone  but  the  brave. 
None  but  the  brave. 
None  but  the  brave,  deserves  the  fair. 

2.  Timothciis,*  placed  on  high 

Amid  the  tuneful  choir, 

With  flying  fingers  touch'd  the  lyre ; 
The  trembling  notes  ascend  the  sky, 

And  heavenly  joys  inspire. 
The  so  nor  beo:an  fiom  Jove  '    - 
Who  left  his  blissful  seats  above — 
Such  is  the  power  of  mighty  love  ! — 
A  dragon's  fiery  form  belied  the  god  : 
Sublime  on  radiant  spheres  he  rode, 

When  he  to  fair  Olympia'  press'd,    . 
And  stamped  an  image  of  himself,  a  sovereign  of  the  world ; 
The  listening  crowd  admire  the  lofty  sound  ; 

1  An  ode  for  St.  Cecilia's  day,  designed  to  illustrate  the  power  of  music. 
— '  Philip's  warlike  son,  Alexander  the  Great,  see  p.  145,  note  6. — 
•  Tha'  is,  a  celebrated  beauty  of  Athens,  an  attendant  of  Alexander,  who 
gained  such  infiuence  over  hini,  as  to  cause  him,  during  a  great  festival  at 
Persepolis,  to  set  fire  to  the  palace  of  t!ie  Persiun  kings.  Oii  the  death  of 
the  conqueror,  she  married  Ptolemy,  king  of  Egj-pt,  one  of  Alexander's 
generals.  She  is  sometimes  called  Mexa.vdria. — *  Tdiotheus,  see  p.  227, 
note  3. — ®  Jove,  sco  p.  337,  note  4. — ®  Olympia  (o  Hm  pia),  one  of  the 
numerous  names  of  Ju^'O,  the  sister  aud  wife  of  Jupiter. 


liil  NATIONAL    i'TFril     KEADKK. 

**  /V  j)resent  deity  !"  tliey  shout  around ; 

"  A  present  deity !"  the  vaulted  roofs  rebound : 

With  ravish'd  ears 

The  monarch  hears, 

Assumes  the  god, 

Affects  to  nod, 
And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 

3.  The  praise  of  Bacchus,^  then,  the  sweet  musician  sung, 
Of  Bacchus,  ever  fair  and  ever  young ! 

The  jolly  god  in  triumph  comes ! 

Sound  the  trumpet !  beat  the  drums ! 

Flush'd  wifh  a  purple  grace, 

lie  shows  his  honest  face. 
Now  give  the  hautboys  breath ! — he  comes !  he  comes  I 

Bacchus,  ever  fair  and  young. 

Drinking  joys  did  first  ordain  : 
Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure ; 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure : 
Rich  the  treasure. 
Sweet  the  pleasure ; 

Sweet  is  pleasure,  after  pain ! 

4.  Soothed  wifh  the  sound,  the  king  grew  vain ; 
Fouglit  all  his  battles  o'er  again ; 

And  thrice  he  routed  all  his  foes,  and  thrice  he  slew  the  slain. 
The  master  saw  the  madness  rise ; 
His  glowing  cheeks,  his  ardent  eyes ! 
And  while  he  heaven  and  earth  defied, 
Changed  his  hand  and  check'd  his  prido. 

He  chose  a  mournful  muse, 

Soft  pity  to  infuse  : 
He  sung  Dariiis,^  great  and  good, 

By  too  severe  a  fate. 

Fallen!  fallen!  fallen!  fiillen! 

Fallen  from  his  great  estate, 

'Bacchus,  see  p.  79,  note  4. — 'Darius  III.,  sometimes  callo<l  Codo- 
MANNUS,  in  whose  defeat  by  Alexanier  the  Great  the  Persian  empire 
was  consummated,  succeeded  to  the  throne  b.  c.  336,  and  was  killed 


alexa^^dee's  feast.  4^5 

And  weltering  iu  Iiis  blood ! 
Deserted  at  liis  utmost  need 
By  those  his  former  bounty  fed, 
On  the  bare  earth  exposed  he  lies, 
With  not  a  friend  to  close  his  eyes. 

With  downcast  look  the  joyous  victor  sate, 

Revolving,  in  his  alter'd  soul, 
The  various  turns  of  fate  below  ; 

And  now  and  then  a  sigh  he  stole, 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

6.  The  mighty  master  smiled  to  sec 
That  love  was  in  the  next  degree : 
*Twas  but  a  kindred  strain  to  move; 
For  pity  melts  the  mind  to  love. 
Softly  sweet,  in  Lydian'  measures, 
Soon  he  soothed  his  soul  to  pleasures : 
War,  he  sung,  is  toil  and  trouble ; 
Honor  but  an  empty  bubble ; 

Never  ending,  still  beginning. 

Fighting  still,  and  still  destroying : 
If  the  world  be  worth  thy  winning, 

Think,  oh  think  it  worth  enjoying ! 
Lovely  Thais  sits  beside  thee ; 
Take  the  good  the  gods  provide  thee. 
The  many  rend  the  skies  with  loud  applause : 
So  love  was  crown'd  ;  but  music  won  the  cause. 
The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 
Gazed  on  the  fair 
Who  caused  his  care. 
And  sigh'd  and  look'd,  sigh'd  and  look'd, 
Sigh'd  and  look'd,  and  sigh'd  again : 
At  length,  with  love  and  wine  at  once  oppressed. 
The  vanquish'd  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 

6.  Now  strike  the  golden  lyre  again ; 
A  louder  yet,  and  yet  a  louder  strain ; 


*Lydian  (lid' i  an),  pertaii.ing  to  Lydia,  a  country  of  Asia  Minor,  oi 
to  its  inhabitants  :  hence,  soft ;  effeminate  ;  noting  a  kind  of  soft,  slow 
music,  anciently  in  v<»;^iie 


496  NATIONAL    FIFIU    READIiIK. 

Break  his  bands  of  sleep  asunder, 
And  rouse  him  like  a  rattling  peal  of  thunder 
Hark !  hark ! — the  horrid  sound 
lias  raised  up  his  head, 
As  awaked  from  the  dead ; 
And,  amazed,  he  stares  around. 
Revenge,  revenge !  Timotheiis  cries — 
See  the  furies  arise ! 
See  the  snakes  that  they  rear, 
How  they  hiss  in  their  hair. 
And  the  sparkles  that  flash  from  their  eyes ! 

7.  Behold  a  ghastly  band. 
Each  a  torch  in  his  hand ! 

These  are  Grecian  ghosts,  that  in  battle  were  slain, 
And,  unburied  remain 
Inglorious  on  the  plain. 
Give  the  vengeance  dae 
To  the  valiant  crew. 
Behold  how  they  toss  their  torches  on  high! 
How  they  point  to  the  Persian  abodes. 
And  glittering  temples  of  their  hostile  gods! 
The  princes  applaud  wifli  a  furious  joy  ; 
And  the  king  seized  a  flambeau,  with  zeal  to  destroy: 
Thais  led  the  way 
To  light  him  to  his  prey ; 
And,  like  another  Helen,'  lired  another  Troy. 

8.  Thus  long  ago. 

Ere  heaving  bellows  learn'd  to  blow, 
While  organs  ySt  were  mute, 
Timotheiis  to  his  breathing  flute 
And  sounding  lyre, 
Could  swell  the  soul  to  rage,  or  kindle  soft  desire. 
At  last,  divine  Cecilia'  came, 

'  IIfxen,  a  most  beautiful  woman  of  ancient  Greece,  whom  Paris,  the 
son  of  PuiAM,  king  of  Troy,  stole  from  tlie  arms  of  her  husband,  Menk- 
LA  us,  who,  with  the  otlier  Greek  chiefs,  resolved  to  avenge  her  abduc- 
tion. Herce  rose  the  Trojan  war,  which  lasted  ten  years. — 'Cecili\, 
the  patror  sunt  of  music,  erroneously  rcganlo.l  Jis  the  invcntrcKS  of  the 


ALEXANDER'S    FEAST.  41)7 

In  veil  tress  oi  the  vocal  frame : 
The  sweet  enthusiast,  from  her  sacred  store, 
Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds. 
And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds. 
With  nature's  mother  wit,  and  arts  unknown  before. 
Let  old  Timotheiis  yield  the  prize, 

Or  both  divide  the  crown  : 
He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies ; 

She  drew  an  angel  down.  Dryden. 

John  Dryden,  one  of  the  great  masters  of  English  verse,  was  born  at  Old 
^•inckle,  in  Northamptonshire,  Auj^ust,  1031.  He  was  etkicated  at  Westminster 
and  Trinitj'  College,  Cambridge.  He  began  his  literary  career  by  a  set  of  iieroic 
Btanzas  on  the  death  of  Cromwell,  which  was  a  good  precursor  of  his  future 
excellence.  The  Restoration  occurring  wiien  he  was  in  his  thirtieth  year,  ex- 
cludecl  him  for  the  time  from  government  employment  and  patronage,  and  lie 
at  once  devoted  himself  to  literature  for  a  profession.  The  stage  now  offered 
itself  as  the  only  means  through  which  his  pen  could  furnish  a  livelihood  ;  and 
in  the  course  of  twenty-five  years,  he  wrote  twenty-seven  dramas,  tlie  most  re- 
markable of  which  are  his  "  Heroic  Plays."  From  these  rhymed  dialogues 
arose  that  mastery  of  the  English  heroic  coui)!et  which  lie  was  the  fii-st  to  ac- 
quire, and  in  which  no  succeeding  poet  has  nearly  equaled  him.  The  prefaces 
dedications,  and  essays,  with  which  he  accompanied  his  dramas,  exhibit  him 
dtonce  as  the  earliest  writer  of  regular  and  elegant  English  |)rose,  and  as  the 
first  who  aimed  in  our  language  at  any  thing  like  philosoj)liical  criticism.  These 
prose  fragments  contain  some  of  the  most  felicitous  specimens  of  style  which  our 
tongue  has  ever  produced.  His  engagement  to  write  plays  for  the  King's  Tiie- 
ater  gave  him  X3U0  a  year:  his  circumstances  were  improved  by  his  marriage, 
in  10(55,  with  Lady  Elizaketh  Howard,  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Berkshire; 
and  in  1070  he  received,  with  a  salary  of  jC'iOO  a  year  and  tlie  famous  butt  of 
wine,  the  joint  olhces  of  historiographer-royal  and  poet-laureate.  "Absalom 
and  Achitophel,"  the  best  of  all  his  political  satires,  appeared  in  lfi«l  "The 
Medal"  and  "  iMac  Flecknoe,"  works  of  tlie  same  kind,  tbilowed  soon  after  In 
lOHo,  Dryden  was  received  into  the  Church  of  Rome,  the  first  public  fruit  o' 
which  was  the  "  Hind  and  Panther,"  a  rich  allegorical  poem,  in  which  the 
main  arguments  of  the  Roman  Ciiurch  are  stated.  The  Revolution,  taking 
place  in  his  fifty-seventh  year,  deprived  the  poet  of  his  courtly  patrons  and  pen- 
sions, and  forced  him  to  spend  the  last  twelve  years  of  ids  life  in  hard  toil. 
Some  of  his  best  works  were  produced  in  this  period.  In  1G<)U  a|)|)eared  his 
tragedy  of  "  Don  Sebastian,"  the  best  of  his  serious  i)lays.  In  1097  he  threw  off 
at  a  h?at  Ids  "Alexander's  Feast,"  one  of  the  most  animated  of  all  lyrical 
poems;  and  hissiiirited  translation  of  Virgil  appeared  the  same  year.  Lastly, 
in  fhe  siiring  of  170!),  were  published  his  "  Fables,"  which  prove  that  his  warm 
imagination  then  burned  as  brightly  as  ever,  and  that  his  metrical  skill  increased 


organ,  suffered  martyrdom  a.  d.  220.  She  has  been  celebrated  by  sev- 
eral of  the  poets,  and  depicted  on  canvass  by  more  than  one  of  the  great 
painters.  Raphael  has  presented  her  as  the  personitication  of  heavenly 
devotion. 

8'i 


!''^  NATKiNAL    FItTII    KIOAHEIC. 


to  the  close  of  his  lile.  These  admirable  poems  shed  a  glory  on  the  last  days 
of  tlie  poet,  who  died  on  the  1st  o(  May,  1700.  For  an  extended  description  of 
Dryden's  poetical  endowments,  the  reader  is  referred  to  the  63d  Exercise,  p.  22a 


160.  The  Stolen  Rifle. 

MACKENZIE  offered  to  cross  the  river  and  demand  the  rifle, 
if  any  one  would  accompany  him.  It  was  a  Lair-brained 
project,  for  these  villages  were  noted  for  the  ruffian'  character  oi 
their  inhabitants ;  yet  two  volunteers  promptly  stepped  forward, 
Alfred  Seton,  the  clerk,  and  Joe  de  la  Pierre,  the  cook.  The 
tri'o  soon  reached  the  opposite  side  of  the  river.  On  landing, 
they  freshly  primed  their  rifles  and  pistols.  A  path  winding  for 
about  a  hundred  yards  among  rocks  and  crags,  led  to  the  village. 

2.  No  notice  seemed  to  be  taken  of  their  approach.  Not  a 
solitary  being — man,  woman,  or  child — greeted  them.  The  very 
dogs,  those  noisy  pests  of  an  Indian^  town,  kept  silence.  On 
entering  the  village  a  boy  made  his  appearance,  and  pointed  to 
a  house  of  larger  dimensions  than  the  rest.  They  had  to  stoop 
to  enter  it :  as  soon  as  they  had  passed  the  threshold,  the  nar- 
row passage  behind  them  was  filled  by  a  sudden  rush  of  Indians, 
who  had  before  kept  out  of  sight. 

3.  Mackenzie  and  his  companions  found  themselves  in  a  rude 
chamber  of  about  twenty-five  feet  long,  and  twenty  wide.  A 
bright  fire  was  blazing  at  one  end,  near  which  sat  the  chief, 
about  sixty  years  old.  A  large  number  of  Indians,  wrapped  in 
buffalo  robes,  were  squatted  in  rows,  three  deep,  forming  a  semi- 
circle round  three  sides  of  the  room.  A  single  glance  sufficed 
to  show  them  the  grim  and  dangerous  assembly  into  which  they 
had  intruded,  and  that  all  retreat  was  cut  off  by  the  mass  which 
blocked  up  the  entrance. 

4.  The  chief  pointed  to  the  vacant  side  of  the  room  opposite 
to  the  door,  and  motioned  for  them  to  take  their  seats.  They 
complied.  A  dead  pause  ensued.  The  grim  warriors  around 
Bat  like  statues ;  each  muffled  in  his  robe,  wifli  his  fierce  eyes 
bent  on  the  intruders.  The  latter  felt  they  were  in  a  perilous 
predicament. 

5.  "Keep  your  eyes  on  the  chief  while  I  am  addressing  him," 

*  Ruffian  (r&f  yan). — "  Indian  (Ind'yan). 


TiiK  T():maiia\\'k  suDMiisivi:   lo  i:i,oQUi:xci<:.        41)!) 

said  Mackenzie  to  his  companions.  "Should  he  give  any  sign 
to  his  band,  shoot  him,  and  make  for  the  door."  Mackenzie  ad- 
vanced, and  offered  the  pipe  ol"  peace  to  the  chief,  but  it  was 
refused.  He  then  made  a  regular  speech,  explaining  the  object 
of  their  visit,  and  proposing  to  give,  in  exchange  for  the  rifle, 
two  blankets,  an  ax,  some  beads,  and  tobacco. 

6.  When  he  had  done,  the  chief  rose,  began  to  address  him 
in  a  low  voice,  but  soon  became  loud  and  violent,  and  ended  by 
working  himself  up  into  a  furious  passion.  He  upbraided  the 
white  men  for  their  sordid  conduct,  in  passing  and  repassing 
through  their  neighborhood  without  giving  them  a  blanket  or 
any  other  article  of  goods,  merely  because  they  had  no  furs  to 
barter  in  exchange;  and  he  alluded,  with  menaces  of  vengeance, 
to  the  death  of  the  Indians,  killed  by  the  whites  at  the  skirmish 
at  the  Falls. 

7.  Matters  were  verging'  to  a  crisis.  It  was  evident  the  sur- 
rounding savages  were  only  waiting  a  signal  from  the  chief  to 
spring  upon  their  prey.  Mackenzie  and  his  companions  had 
gradually  risen  on  their  feet  during  the  speech,  and  had  brought 
their  rifles  to  a  horizontal  position,  the  barrels  resting  in  their 
left  hands :  the  muzzle  of  Mackenzie's  piece  was  within  three 
feet  of  the  speaker's  heart. 

8.  They  cocked  their  rifles ;  the  click  of  the  locks  for  a  mo- 
ment suffused  the  dark  cheek  of  the  savage,  and  there  was  a 
pause.  They  coolly,  but  promptly  advanced  to  the  door;  the 
Indians  fell  back  in  awe,  and  suffered  them  to  pass.  The  sun 
was  just  setting  as  they  emerged'  from  this  dangerous  den.  They 
took  the  precaution  to  keep  along  the  tops  of  the  rocks  as  much 
as  possible,  on  their  way  back  to  the  canoe,  and  reached  their 
camp  in  safety,  congratulating  themselves  on  their  escape,  and 
feeling  no  desire  to  make  a  second  visit  to  the  grim  warriors  of 
the  Wish-ram."  Irving.' 


161.  The  Tomahawk  Submissive  to  Eloquence. 

TWENTY  tomahawks  were  raised ;  twenty  arrows  drawn  to 
their  head.     Yet  stood  Harold,  stern  and  collected,  at  bay — 
parleying  only  wifh  his  szoord.     He  waved  his  arm.     Smitten 

'  V4rg'  ing.— '  E  mSrg  ing. — *  See  Biograpliical  Sketch,  p.  IM. 


600  NATIONAL    FJFllI    UlCADKR. 

with  a  sense  of  their  cow'ardice,  perhaps,  or  by  his  great  dig- 
nity, more  awful  for  his  very  youth,  their  weapons  dropped,  and 
their  countenances  were  nphfted  upon  him,  lesi  in  hatred  than 
in  wonder. 

2.  The  old  men  gathered  abont  him  :  he  leaned  upon  his  sa- 
ber. Their  eyes  shone  wifli  admiration  :  such  heroic  deport- 
ment, in  one  so  young — a  boy!  so  intrepid!  so  prompt!  so 
graceful !  so  eloquent,  too  ! — for,  knowing  the  effect  of  eloquence, 
and  feeling  the  loftiness  of  his  own  nature,  the  innocence  of  his 
own  heart,  the  character  of  the  Indians  for  hSspital'ity,  and 
their  veneration  for  his  blood,  Harold  dealt  out  the  thunder  of 
his  strength  to  these  rude  barbarians  of  the  wilderness,  till  they, 
young  and  old,  gathering  nearer  and  nearer  in  their  devotion, 
threw  down  their  weapons  at  his  feet,  and  formed  a  rampart  ol 
locked  arms  and  hearts  about  him,  through  which  his  eloquence 
thrilled  and  li^'htcned  like  electricity.  The  old  greeted  him  with 
a  lofty  step,  as  the  patriarch  welcomes  his  boy  from  the  triumph 
of  far-off  battle ;  and  the  young  clave  to  him  and  clung  to  him, 
and  shouted  in  their  self-abandonment,  like  brothers  round  a  con- 
quering brother. 

3.  "  Warriors !"  he  said,  "  Brethren  !" — (their  tomahawks  were 
brandished  sTmuIta'neously,  at  the  sound  of  his  terrible  voice,  as 
if  preparing  for  the  onset).  Ills  tones  grew  deeper,  and  less 
threatening.  "Brothers!  let  us  talk  toggther  of  Logan!'  Ye 
who  have  known  him,  ye  aged  men !  bear  ye  testimony  to  the 
deeds  of  his  strength.  Who  was  like  him  ?  Who  could  resist 
him  ?  Who  may  abide  the  hurricane  in  its  volley  ?  Who  may 
withstand  the  winds  that  uproot  the  great  trees  of  the  mountain  ? 
Let  him  be  the  foe  of  Logan.  Thrice  in  one  day  hath  he  given 
battle.  Thrice  in  one  day  hath  he  come  back  victorious.  Who 
may  bear  up  against  the  strong  man — the  man  of  war  ?  Let 
them  that  are  young,  hear  me.  Let  them  follow  the  course  of 
Logan.  He  goes  in  clouds  and  whirlwind — in  the  fire  and  in 
the  smoke.  Let  them  follow  him.  W^arrioi*s!  Logan  was  the 
father  of  Harold !"     They  fell  back  in  astonishment,  but  they 

^  LofiAN,  an  Indian  chief  of  the  Cayugas,  murdered  in  1781.  He  was 
remarkable  for  his  attachment  to  the  wliites  until  cruelly  treated  by 
them,  when  he  took  an  Indian's  revenge.  A  speech  of  his,  addressed 
to  Tjord  DuNMORB,  is  an  eloquent  rebuke  of  the  conduct  of  the  whites. 


MAIL]  us    1^'    IMIISON.  50l 

believed  him ;  for  Harold's  word  was  unquestioned,  undoubted 
evidence,  to  them  that  knew  him.  Neal. 

John  Neal  was  born  in  Portland,  Maine,  about  1794.  He  was  brought  up  as 
a  shop-boj',  and  in  1815  became  a  wholesale  dry-goods  dealer  in  Baltimore,  with 
John  Pierpont,  the  poet.  The  concern  failed,  and  Neal  commenced  the  study 
of  law,  and  with  it  the  profession  of  literature,  by  writing  a  series  of  critical  es- 
says on  the  works  of  Byron  for  "  The  Portico,"  a  monthly  magazine.  In  1818 
he  published  "Keep  Cool,"  a  novol,  and  in  the  following  year  "The  Battle 
of  Niagara,  Goldau  the  Maniac  Harper,  and  otlier  Poems,"  and  "Olho,"  a 
tragedy.  He  wrote  a  large  portion  of  Allen's  "  History  of  the  American  Rev- 
olution," which  appeared  in  1821.  Four  novels,  "  Logan,"  "  Randolph,"  "  Er- 
rata," and  "Seventy-six,"  some  of  which  were  republished  in  London,  followed 
in  quick  succession.  Meanwhile  the  author  had  studied  law ;  been  admitted, 
and  was  practicing  as  energetically  as  he  was  writing.  Near  the  close  of  1823 
he  went  abroad  ;  and,  soon  after  his  arrival  in  London,  became  a  contributor  to 
several  periodicals,  making  his  first  appearance  in  "  Blackwood's  Magazine,"  in 
"Sketch  of  the  Five  American  Presidents  and  the  Five  Candidates  for  the 
Presidency,"  a  paper  which  was  widely  republished.  After  passing  four  years 
in  Great  Dritain  and  on  the  Continent,  in  which  time  appeared  his  "  Brother 
Jonathan,"  a  novel,  he  came  back  to  his  native  city  of  Portland,  where  he  now 
resides.  He  has  since  published  "  Racliel  Duer,"  "  Authorship,"  "  The  Down 
Easters,"  and  "Ruth  Elder;"  edited  "The  Yankee,"  a  weekly  gazette,  two 
years,  and  contributed  largely  to  otlier  periodicals.  His  novels  are  original,  and 
written  from  the  impulses  of  liis  heart,  containing  numerous  passages  marked 
by  dramatic  power,  and  brilliancy  of  sentiment  and  expression ;  but  most  of 
them  were  produced  rapidly,  and  are  without  unity,  aim,  or  continuous  interest. 
Mr.  Neal's  poems  have  the  unquestionable  stamp  of  genius.  His  imagination 
is  marked  by  a  degree  of  sensibility  and  energy  rarely  surpassed.  But,  having 
little  just  sense  of  proportion,  he  exhibits  a  want  of  skill  in  using  his  rich  and 
abundant  materials. 


162.  Marius  in  Pkisox. 

THE  peculiar  sublimity  of  the  Roman  mind  does  not  express 
itself,  nor  is  it  at  all  to  be  sought,  in  their  poetry.  Poetry, 
according  to  the  Roman  ideal  of  it,  was  not  an  adequate  organ 
for  the  grander  movements  of  the  national  mind.  Roman  sub- 
limity must  be  looked  for  in  Roman  acts,  and  in  Roman  sayings. 
Where,  again,  will  you  find  a  more  adequate  expression  of  the 
Roman  majesty,  than  in  the  saying  of  Trajan^ — Imperatorem 

*  Trajan,  one  of  the  most  illustrious  emperors  of  Eome,  was  born 
near  Seville,  in  Spain,  in  the  year  53.  By  his  great  victories  over  the 
Oiicians,  Germans,  and  Pavthians,  he  fixed  securely  the  boundaries  of 
th3  Roman  empire  on  the  banks  of  the  Rhine  and  the  Tigris.  His  in- 
ternai  administration  was  equally  glorious,  his  leign  being  celebrated 
ff)r  its  great  clemency,  and  rigid  discipline  of  justice,  and  for  its  human 
ity  t,<)  Chri-^tinns.     He  died  at  Selinus,  a  town  in  Cilicia,  August   117. 


502  NATIONAL    FIFTH    liFADKIt. 

oportcre  stantcm  mori — that  Coesar'  ought  to  die  slamling? — a 
speech  of  inipcratorial  grandeur.  Implying  that  he,  wlio  was 
"the  foremost  man  of  all  this  world,"  and,  in  regard  to  all 
other  nations,  the  representative  of  his  own,  should  express  its 
characteristic  virtue  in  his  farewell  act — should  die  in  j^rocinctu* 
and  should  meet  the  last  enemy  as  the  first,  with  a  Roman 
countenance  and  in  a  soldier's  attitude.  If  this  had  an  impera- 
torial,  what  follows  had  a  consular  majesty,  and  is  almost  the 
grandest  story  upon  record. 

2.  Marius,'  the  man  who  rose  to  be  seven  times  consul,  was  in 
a  dungeon,  and  a  slave  was  sent  in  with  commission  to  put  him 
to  death.  These  were  the  persons — the  two  extremities  of  ex- 
alted and  forlorn  humanity,  its  vanward  and  its  rearward  man,  a 
Roman  consul  and  an  abject  slave.  But  their  natural  relations 
to  each  other  were,  by  the  caprice  of  fortune,  monstrously  in- 
verted :  the  consul  was  in  chains ;  the  slave  was  for  a  moment 
the  arbiter  of  his  fate.  By  what  spells,  what  magic,  did  Marius 
reinstate  himself  in  his  natural  prerogatives  ?  By  what  marvels 
drawn  from  heaven  or  from  earth,  did  he,  in  the  twinkling  of  an 
eye,  again  invest  himself  with  the  purple,  and  place  between 
himself  and  his  assassin  a  host  of  shadowy  lictors  ? 

3.  By  the  mere  blank  supremacy  of  great  minds  over  weak 
ones.  He  fascinated  the  slave,  as  a  rattlesnake  does  a  bird. 
Standing  "like  Teneriffe,"  he  smote  him  with  his  eye,  and  said, 
"  Tune,  homo,  audes  occidere  C.  Murium  T' — Dost  thou,  fellow, 
presume  to  kill  Caius  Marius  ?  Whereat,  the  rep 'tile,  quaking 
under  the  voice,  nor  daring  to  affront  the  consular  eye,  sank 
gently  to  the  ground,  turned  round  upon  his  hands  and  feet, 
and,  crawling  out  of  the  prison  like  any  other  vermin,  left  Marina 
standing  in  solitude  as  steadfast  and  immovable  as  the  capitol. 

De  Quincey.* 

♦ 

163.  Scene  from:  King  Hiciiard  III. 
Brakenhury.  Why  looks  your  grace  so  heavily  to-day  ? 
Clarence.  Oh,  I  have  pass'd  a  miserable  night, 

'  CiESAR,  Bee  p.  209,  note  4. — '  In  procinctu,  about  to  join  buttle  ;  readj 
f(»r  action. — *  Marius,  one  of  the  greatest  generals  and  dictators  of  the 
Roman  republic,  born  about  157,  and  died  b.  c.  8G  — *  See  lUographical 
Sketch    )..  ;>7. 


SCENE   FKOM    KING    RICUAKD   UI.  503 

So  full  of  Ugly  sights,  of  ghastly  dreams, 
That,  as  I  am  a  Christian  faithful  man, 
I  would  not  spend  another  such  a  night, 
Though  'twere  to  buy  a  world  of  happy  days, 
So  full  of  dismal  terror  was  the  time ! 

Brak.  What  was  your  dream,  my  lord  ?     I  pray  you  tel   me. 

Clar.  Methought  that  I  had  broken  from  the  tower, 
And  was  embark'd  to  cross  to  Bur'gundy, 
And  in  my  company  my  brother  Gloster, 
Who  from  my  cabin  tempted  me  to  walk 
Upon  the  hatches.     Thence  we  look'd  toward  England, 
And  cited  up  a  thousand  heavy  times. 
During  the  wars  of  York  and  Lanc'aster, 
That  had  befallen  us.     As  we  pass'd  along 
Upon  the  giddy  footing  of  the  hatches, 
Methought  that  Gloster  stumbled ;  and,  in  falling 
Struck  me,  that  sought  to  stay  him,  overboard, 
Into  the  tumbling  billows  of  the  main. 

0  heaven !  Methought  what  pain  it  was  to  drowu ! 
What  dreadful  noise  of  waters  in  my  ears ! 
What  sights  of  ugly  death  within  my  eyes ! 

1  thought  I  saw  a  thousand  fearful  wrecks ; 
A  thousand  men,  that  fishes  gnaw'd  upon  ; 
Wedges  of  gold,  great  anchors,  heaps  of  pearl, 
Inestimable  stones,  unvalued  jewels. 

All  scatterd  in  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 

Some  lay  in  dead  men's  skulls ;  and  in  those  holes 

Where  eyes  did  once  inhabit,  there  were  crept, 

As  'twere  in  scorn  of  eyes,  reflecting  gems, 

That  woo'd  the  slimy  bottom  of  the  deep, 

And  mock'd  the  dead  bones  that  lay  scatter'd  by. 

Brak.  Had  you  such  leisure,  in  the  time  of  death, 
To  gaze  upon  the  secrets  of  the  deep  ? 

Clar.  Methought  I  had ;  and  often  did  I  strive 
To  yield  the  ghost ;  but  still  the  envious  flood 
Kept  in  my  soul,  and  would  not  let  it  forth 
To  find  the  empty,  vast,  and  wandering  air ; 
But  smother'd  it  within  my  panting  bulk. 
Which  almost  burst  to  belch  it  in  the  sea. 


504  NATIONAL    Fliai]    KKAI)i:it. 

Brak.  Awaked  you  not  wifh  this  sore  agony? 

Clar.  No,  no !  my  dream  was  Icngthen'd  after  life ; 
Oh,  then  began  the  tempest  to  my  soul ! 
I  pass'd,  mcthought,  the  melancholy  flood, 
Wifli  that  grim  ferryman'  which  poets  write  of^ 
Unto  the  kingdom  of  perpetual  night. 
The  first  that  there  did  greet  my  stranger  soul 
Was  my  great  father-in-law,  renowned  Warwick, 
Who  cried  aloud — "  What  scourge  for  iKrjury 
Can  this  dark  monarchy  a  ford  false  Clarence '^^^ 
And  so  he  vanish'd.     Then  came  wandering  by 
A  shadow  like  an  angel,  with  bright  hair 
Dabbled  in  blood,  and  he  shriek'd  out  aloud — 
"  Clarence  is  come^ — false^  fleeting^  2^^^^^^^  Clarence,-^ 
That  stabUd  me  in  the  field  by  Tewksbwry  ! 
Seize  on  him^  furies!  take  him  to  your  torments F* 
With  that,  mcthought  a  legion  of  foul  fiends 
Environ'd  me,  and  howled  in  mine  cars 
Such  hideous  cries,  that,  with  the  very  noise, 
I  trembling  waked,  and,  for  a  season  after, 
Could  not  believe  but  that  I  was  in  hell ; 
Such  terrible  impression  made  my  dream. 

BrcLk.  No  marvel,  lord,  that  it  aftrighted  yoa ; 
I  am  afraid,  methinks,  to  hear  you  tell  it. 

Clar.  Ah !  Brakcnbury,  I  have  done  these  things. 
That  now  give  evidence  against  my  soul. 
For  Edwai'd's  sake ;  and,  see  how  he  requites  me ! 

0  G6d !  if  my  deep  prayers  can  not  appease  thco, 
But  thou  wilt  be  avenged  on  my  misdeeds, 

Yet  execute  thy  wi'ath  on  mc  alone : 

Oh,  spare  my  guiltless  wife,  and  my  poor  children  I — 

1  prithee,  Brakcnbury,  stay  by  me ; 

My  soul  is  heavy,  and  I  fain  would  sleep. 

CuARON,  son  of  Erehus,  who,  according  to  ancient  mythology,  con- 
\  vft(\  in  his  boat  the  shades  of  the  dead  across  the  rivers  of  the  lower 
world.  For  this  service  he  was  paid  with  an  obolus  or  danace,  which 
com  was  placed  in  the  mouth  of  every  corpse  previous  to  its  burial. 
He  is  represented  as  an  aged    man,  with  a  dirty  beara  anil  a  mean 


SKLECT    TASSAGES    IN    PiiOSK.  505 

Bntlc.  T  will,  my  lord;  God  give  your  grace  good  rest!  — 

[Clarence  reposing  himself  on  a  chair, 
Sorrow  breaks  seasons,  and  reposing  hours, 
Makes  the  night  morning,  and  the  noon-tide  night 
Princes  have  but  their  titles  for  their  glories, 
An  outward  honor  for  an  inward  toil  * 
And,  for  unfelt  imaginations, 
I'liey  6l7en  feel  a  world  of  restless  cares ; 
So  that  between  their  titles  and  low  name. 
There's  nothinn  differs  but  the  outward  fame.        Suakspeakb.^ 


1G4.  Select  Passages  in  Pkose. 
I.   TiiF.    Stream    of   Life. — Heber.' 

Life  bears  us  on  like  the  stream  of  a  mighty  river.  Our  boat 
at  first  glides  down  the  narrow  channel,  through  the  playful 
murmuring  of  the  little  brook  and  the  winding  of  its  grassy 
border.  The  trees  shed  their  blossoms  over  our  young  heads, 
the  flowers  on  the  brink  seem  to  offer  themselves  to  our  young 
hands ;  we  are  happy  in  hope,  and  we  grasp  eagerly  at  the  beau 
ties  around  us — but  the  stream  hurries  on,  and  still  our  hands 
aie  empty.  Our  course  in  youth  and  manhood  is  along  a  wider 
and  deeper  flood,  amid  objects  more  striking  and  magnificent. 
We  are  animated  by  the  moving  picture  of  enjoyment  and  in'- 
dustry  passing  before  us ;  we  are  excited  by  some  short-lived 
disappointment.     The  stream  bears  us  on,  and  our  joys  and  our 

'  See  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  348. — '  Reginald  Heber,  son  of  the  Rev. 
Reginald  Heber,  was  born  at  Mai  pas,  Cheshire,  England,  on  the  2l8t 
of  April,  1783.  He  entered  the  University  of  Oxford  in  1800.  where 
his  career  was  brilliant  from  its  commencement  to  its  close.  In  the 
first  year  he  gained  the  university  prize  for  Latin  verse  ;  he  wrote  his 
poem  of  Palestine  in  1803;  and  in  1804  took  his  degree,  ind  won  the 
prize  for  the  best  English  prose  essay.  In  1807  he  "took  orders,"  and 
waf*  settled  in  Ilodnet,  in  Shropshire.  After  being  arlvanced  to  two  or 
throe  ecclesiastical  preferments,  in  1822  he  was  appointed  bish< 'p  of  Cal- 
cutta, and  embarked  for  India  in  1823,  where  he  performed  his  duties 
with  groat  earnestness  till  his  death,  on  the  3d  of  April,  1826.  His  nu- 
merof.K  prose  works,  and  his  poetry,  are  noted  for  the  purity  of  their 
style,  and  flevation  of  sentiment. 

22 


506  NATIONAL   FIFTH    READKK. 

griefs  are  alike  left  behina  is.  We  may  be  shipwrecked,  bnt 
we  can  not  be  delayed ;  whether  rough  or  smooth,  tlie  river 
hastens  toward  its  home,  till  the  roar  of  the  ocean  is  in  our  eai-s, 
and  the  tossing  of  its  waves  is  beneath  our  feet,  and  the  land 
lessens  from  our  eyes,  and  the  floods  are  lifted  up  around  us,  and 
wc  take  our  leave  of  earth  and  its  inhabitants,  until  of  our  fur- 
hcr  voyage  there  is  no  witness  save  the  Infinite  and  Eternal 

II.  Life  Compared  to  a  River. — Davy.* 
A  FULL  and  clear  river  is,  in  my  opinion,  the  most  poetical 
object  in  nature.  Pliny*  has,  as  well  as  I  recollect,  compared  a 
river  to  human  life.  I  have  never  read  the  passage  in  his  works, 
but  I  have  been  a  hundred  times  struck  with  the  analogy,  par- 
ticularly amidst  mountain  scenery.  The  river,  small  and  clear 
in  its  origin,  gushes  forth  from  rocks,  falls  into  deep  glens,  and 
wantons  and  meanders  through  a  wild  and  picturesque  country, 
nourishing  only  the  uncultivated  tree  or  flower  by  its  dew  or 
spray.  In  this,  its  state  of  infancy  and  youth,  it  may  be  com- 
pared to  the  human  mind  in  which  fancy  and  strength  of  imagin- 
ation are  predominant — it  is  more  beautiful  than  useful.  When 
the  difi'erent  rills  or  torrents  join,  and  descend  into  the  plain,  it 
becomes  slow  and  stately  in  its  motions ;  it  is  applied  to  move 
machinery,  to  irrigate  meadows,  and  to  bear  upon  its  bosom  the 
stately  barge ; — in  this  mature  state,  it  is  deep,  strong,  and  use- 
ful. As  it  flows  on  toward  the  sea,  it  loses  its  force  and  its  mo- 
tion, and  at  last,  as  it  were,  becomes  lost  and  mingled  with  the 
mighty  abyss  of  waters. 

III.  Ideal  Character  of  Life. — R.  II.  Dana. 

A  true  life,  in  all  its  connections  and  concerns,  has  an  ideal 
and  spiritual  character,  which,  while  it  loses  nothing^  of  the  defin- 
iteness  of  reality,  is  forever  suggesting  thoughts,  taking  new  re- 

*  Sir  Humphrey  Davy,  who  ranks,  as  a  man  of  science,  second  to  nono 
in  the  nineteenth  century,  was  born  at  Penzance,  hi  Cornwall,  P^ngland, 
December,  1778.  Of  his  numerous  discoveries,  that  of  the  safety-lamp 
was,  perhaps,  most  useful.  Though  not  an  extended,  he  was  an  able 
prose  writer,  and  possessed  a  fine  poetical  imagination,  which,  had  ht;  not 
been  the  first  chemibt,  would  have  placed  him  among  the  first  poets  of 
his  age.  He  died  at  Geneva,  on  the  30th  of  May,  1829.—'  Tliny,  see 
p.  76,  note  4. — '  Nothing  (nfith'inc). 


SELECT    PASSAGES    IN    I'liOSK.  5(>7 

iations,  and  peopling  and  giving  action  to  the  imagination.  ^Ml 
that  the  eye  falls  upon  and  all  that  touches  the  heart,  run  oil 
into  airy  distance,  and  the  regions  into  which  the  sight  stretches 
are  alive,  and  bright,  and  beautiful  with  countless  shapings  and 
fair  hues  of  the  gladdened  fancy.  From  kind  acts,  and  gentle 
words,  and  fond  looks  there  spring  hosts,  many  and  glorious  as 
Milton's'  angels;  and  heavenly  deeds  are  done,  and  unearthly 
voices  heard,  and  forms  and  faces,  graceful  and  lovely  as  Uriel's, 
arc  seen  in  the  noonday  sun.  What  would  only  have  given 
pleasure  for  the  time  to  another,  or,  at  most,  be  now  and  then 
called  up  in  his  memory,  in  the  man  of  feeling  and  imagination, 
lays  by  its  particular,  and  short-lived,  and  irregular  nature,  and 
puts  on  the  garments  of  spiritual  beings,  and  takes  the  everlast- 
ing nature  of  the  soul.  The  ordinary  acts  which  spring  from 
the  good-will  of  social  life,  take  up  their  dwelling  within  biin 
and  mingle  with  his  sentiment,  forming  a  little  society  in  his 
mind,  going  on  in  harmony  with  its  generous  enterprises,  its 
fi'iendly  labors,  and  tasteful  pursuits.  They  undergo  a  change, 
becoming  a  portion  of  him,  making  a  part  of  his  secret  joy  and 
melancholy,  and  wandering  at  large  among  his  far-off  thoughts. 
All  that  his  mind  falls  in  with,  it  sweeps  along  in  its  deep,  and 
swift,  and  continuous  flow,  and  bears  onward  with  the  multitude 
that  fills  its  shoreless  and  living  sea. 

IV.  Man's  Glory  Passeth  Away. — Watson.' 

Mark  the  glory  of  collective  man.  United,  he  puts  on  the 
a])pearance  of  strength.  lie  founds  empires ;  he  builds  cities ; 
he  guards  by  his  armies ;  he  cements'  by  his  policy.  Ah  !  vain 
attempt!  Still,  "all  flesh  is  grass,  and  all  the  glory  of  man  as 
the  flower  of  grass."  Trace  the  track  of  civilized  and  powerful 
man  through  the  world,  and  you  will  find  it  covered  wifti  the 

*  Milton,  see  p.  582. — '  Richard  Watson,  bishop  of  LlandafJ,  was  bora 
at  lleversham,  near  Kendal,  England,  in  1737.  He  was  appointed  pro 
feasor  of  chemistry  at  Cambridge,  in  1764,  and  became  professor  of  di- 
vinity in  1771.  His  theological  works  are,  "An  Apology  for  Christian- 
ity," in  answer  to  Gibbon's  chapter  on  the  rise  and  progress  of  Chris- 
tianity, "An  Apology  for  the  Bible,"  in  answer  to  "Paine's  Age  of 
Jieason,"  and  many  tracts  and  sermons.  Ilis  philosophical  works  arp 
.•liiellv  <m  chemistry.     Died  in  1810. 


608  NATIONAL    m-TH    READKK. 

wreck  of  his  hopes;  and  the  v6ry  monuments  of  his  power  liavo 
b^en  converted  into  the  mockery  of  his  weakness.  His  eternal 
"cities  molder  in  their  ruins;  the  serpent  hisses  in  the  cabinet 
where  he  planned  his  empires.  Echo  itself  is  startled  by  the 
foot  which  breaks  the  silence  that  has  reigned  for  ages  in  his 
hall  of  feast  and  song.  Columns  stand  in  the  untrodden  desert ; 
and  the  hut  of  the  shepherd,  or  the  den  of  the  robber,  sheltei-s 
the  only  residence  of  his  palaces.  And  the  glory  which  now 
exists,  is  crumbling  everywhere,  where  it  has  not  the  ccm'cnt  of 
Christianity,  and  where  it  takes  not  something  of  perpetuity 
from  the  everlasting  word.  All  heathen  glory,  all  Mohammedan 
pride,  creak  in  the  blast,  and  nod  to  their  fall.  The  withering 
wind  or  the  raging  tempest  shall  pass  over  them  in  turn ;  and 
men  shall  sit  upon  the  ruins  of  their  proudest  grandeur. 

V.   Evidence    of    a    Creator    in    the    Structure   oi    the 
World. — Tillotson.' 

How  often  might  a  man,  after  he  had  jumbled  a  set  of  letters 
in  a  bag,  fling  them  out  upon  the  ground  before  they  would  fall 
into  an  exact  poem,  yea,  or  so  much  as  make  a  good  discourse 
in  prose!  And  may  not  a  little  book  be  as  easily  made  by 
chance,  as  this  great  volume  of  the  world  ? — How  long  might  a 
man  be  in  sprinkling  colors  upon  a  canvas  wifh  a  careless  hand, 
before  they  could  happen  to  make  the  exact  picture  of  a  man  I 
And  is  a  man  easier  made  by  chance  than  this  picture  ? — How 
long  might  twenty  thousand  blind  men,  which  should  be  sent 
/)Ut  from  the  several  remote  parts  of  England,  wander  up  and 
down  before  they  would  all  meet  upon  Salisbury  Plains,  and  fall 
hito  rank  and  file  in  the  exact  order  of  an  army !  And  y6t  this 
IS  much  more  easy  to  be  imagined,  than  how  the  innumerable 
blind  parts  of  matter  should  rendezvous'  themselves  into  a  world. 

*  John  Tillotson,  a  distinguished  prelate  of  the  English  Church,  was 
I'orn  in  Soweiby,  Yorkshire,  in  1G30.  He  was  educated  at  Clare  Ihill 
College,  Cambridge.  8oon  after  leaving  that  institution,  he  rose  to  dis- 
tijiction  as  a  preacher,  and  preferments  flowed  upon  him  in  rapid  suc- 
cession, till  in  1090  he  beca  ne  Archbishop  of  Canterbury.  Died  in  1G94 
His  sermons,  liis  i)rincipal  compositions,  were,  for  half  a  century,  more 
n-ad  tlian  any  in  our  language. — '  Rendezvous  (rtn'  de  v6),  to  unite  or 
wune  togi-jljcr  in  a  particular  pla<'o. 


SELECT   PASSAGES   IN    PROSE.  609 

VI.  Nature  Proclaims  a  Deity. — Chateaubriand.' 
There  is  a  God !  The  Aerbs  of  tlie  valley,  the  cedars  of  the 
mountain,  bless  him ;  the  insect  sports  in  his  beam ;  the  biid 
sings  him  in  the  foliage ;  the  thunder  proclaims  him  in  the  heAv- 
ens;  the  ocean  declares  his  immensity; — man  alone  has  said. 
There  is  no  God!  Unite  in  thought  at  the  same  instant  the 
mofrt  beautiful  objects  in  nature.  Suppose  that  you  see,  at  once, 
all  the  hours  of  the  day,  and  all  the  seasons  of  the  year, — a  morn- 
mg  of  spring,  and  a  morning  of  autumn — a  night  bespangled 
with  stars,  and  a  night  darkened  by  clouds — meadows  enameled 
with  flowers — forests  hoary  with  snow — fields  gilded  by  the 
tints  of  autumn, — then  alone  you  will  have  a  just  conception  of 
the  universe !  While  you  are  gazing  on  that  sun  which  is 
plunging  into  the  vault  of  the  West,  another  observer  admires 
him  emerging  from  the  gilded  gates  of  the  East.  By  what  in- 
conceivable power  docs  that  aged  star,  which  is  sinking  fatigued 
and  burning  in  the  shades  of  the  evening,  reappear  at  the  same 
instant  fresh  and  humid  with  the  rosy  dew  of  the  morning  ?  At 
every  hour  of  the  day,  the  glorious  orb  is  at  once  rising,  resplen- 
dent as  noon-day,  and  setting  in  the  west ;  or,  rather,  our  senses 
deceive  us,  and  there  is,  properly  speaking,  no  East  or  West,  no 
North  or  South,  in  the  world. 

VII.  The  Blessings  of  Religious  Faith. — Davy. 

I  ENVY  no  quality  of  the  mind  or  intellect  in  others — not 
genius,  power,  wit,  or  fancy ;  but  if  I  could  choose  what  would 
be  most  delightful,  and  I  believe  most  useful  to  me,  I  should 
prefer  a  firm  religious  belief  to  every  other  blessiag;  for  it 
makes  life  a  discipline  of  goodness;  creates  new  hopes,  when 
all  earthly  hopes  vanish ;  and  throws  over  the  decay,  the  do^ 
struction  of  existence,  the  most  gorgeous  of  all  lights ;  awakens 
life  even  in  death,  and  from  corruption  and  decay  calls  up 
beauty  and  divinity;  makes  an  instrument  of  torture  and  of 
shame  the  ladder  of  ascent  to  paradise;  and  far  above  all  com- 
l)inations  of  earthly  hopes,  calls  up  the  most  delightful  visions  of 

'  Chateaubriand,  a  noted  French  writer  and  statesman,  author  of  the 
"Genius  of  Christianity,"  was  born  in  Brittany,  in  1769,  and  died  in 
Paris,  'n  1818,  when  he  had  almost  completed  his  eightieth  year. 


510  NATIOJS'AL   FlFl'H    EEADEK. 

palms  and  amaranths,  the  gardens  of  the  blest,  the  security  ot 
everlasting  joys,  where  the  sensualist  and  the  bkeptic  view  only 
gloom,  decay,  annihilation,  and  despair. 


1G5.  The  Unbeliever. 

I  PITY  the  unbeliever — one  who  can  gaze  upon  the  grandeur, 
and  glory,  and  beauty  of  the  natural  universe,  and  behold 
not  the  touches  of  liis  finger,  who  is  over,  and  wifli,  and  above 
all ;  from  my  very  heart  I  do  commiserate  his  condition.  The 
unbeliever ! — one  whose  intellect  the  light  of  revelation  never 
penetrated ;  who  can  gaze  upon  the  sun,  and  moon,  and  stars, 
and  upon  the  unfading  and  imperishable  sky,  spread  out  so  mag- 
nificently above  him,  and  say  all  this  is  the  work  of  chance ! 

2.  The  heart  of  such  a  being  is  a  drear  and  cheerless  void. 
In  him,  mind — the  god-like  gift  of  intellect — is  debased,  de- 
stroyed ;  all  is  dark — a  fearful  chaotic  labyrinth,  rayless,  cheer- 
less, hopeless!  No  gleam  of  light  from  heaven  penetrates 
the  blackness  of  the  horrible  delusion ;  no  voice  from  the  Eter- 
nal bids  the  desponding  heart  rejoice.  No  fancied  tones  from 
the  harps  of  seraphim  arouse  the  dull  spirit  from  its  lethargy,  or 
allay  the  consuming  fever  of  the  brain.  The  wreck  of  mind  is 
utterly  remediless;  reason  is  prostrate;  and  passion,  prejudice, 
and  superstition,  have  reared  their  temple  on  the  ruins  of  his  in- 
tellect. 

3.  I  pity  the  unbeliever.  What  to  him  is  the  revelation  from 
on  high  but  a  sealed  book  ?  He  sees  nothing'  above,  or  around, 
or  beneath  him,  that  evinces  the  existence  of  a  God  ;  and  he  de- 
nies— yea,  while  standing  on  the  footstool  of  Omnipotence,  and 
gazing  upon  the  dazzling  throne  of  Jehovah,  he  shuts  his  intel- 
lect to  the  light  of  reason,  and  denies  there  is  a  God. 

Chalmers.  * 

♦ 

160.   Hamlet's  Soliloql^. 

1.  rpO  be — or  not  to  be — that  is  the  question  ! 
jL   Whether  'tis  nobler  in  the  mind,  to  sufl^'er 
The  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune ; 

» Nothing  (nuth'ing).— 'See  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  130. 


CA'lo's    SOLIiOQUY.  511 

Or  to  take  arms  against  a  sea  of  troubles, 
And,  by  opposing,  end  them.     To  die — to  sleep ; — 
No  more  ?  and,  by  a  sleep,  to  say  we  end 
The  heart-ache,  and  the  thousand  natural  shocks 
That  flesh  is  heir  to  ?     'Tis  a  consummation 
Devoutly  to  be  wish'd  1     To  die — to  sleep  : 
To  sleep !  perchance  to  dream  !     Ay ;  there's  the  rub 
For,  in  that  sleep  of  death,  what  dreams  may  come, 
When  we  have  shuffled  off  this  mortal  coil, 
Must  give  us  pause  1 
T:  There's  the  respect 

That  makes  calamity  of  so  long  life : 
For  who  would  bear  the  whips  and  scorns  of  time, 
The  oppressor's  wrong,  the  proud  man's  con'tumely, 
The  pangs  of  despised  love,  the  law's  delay, 
The  insolence  of  office,  and  the  spurns 
That  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes, 
When  he  himself  might  his  quietus  make 
With  a  bare  bodkin  ? 

3.  W^ho  would  fardels  bear, 
To  groan  and  sweat  under  a  weary  life  ; 

But  that  the  dread  of  something  after  death, — 
That  undiscover'd  country,  from  whose  bourn 
No  traveler  returns, — puzzles  the  will, 
And  makes  us  rather  bear  those  ills  we  have, 
Than  fly  to  others  that  we  know  not  of? 

4.  Thus  conscience  does  make  cowards  of  us  all ; 
And  thus  the  native  hue  of  resolution 

Is  sicklied  o'er  wifli  the  pale  cast  of  thought ; 

And  enterprises  of  great  pith  and  moment, 

With  this  regard,  their  currents  turn  awry, 

And  lose  the  name  of  action.  SiiAKsrEARB.' 


167.    Cato's^  Soliloquy. 
1.  TT  must  be  so. — Plato,'  thou  reasonest  well ! 

-L  Else,  whence  this  pleasing  hope,  this  fond  desire, 

'  S«3e  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  348. — '  Marcus  Poucrrs  Cati),  great 


612  NATIONAL    FIFTn   KEADEK. 

Tills  longing  after  immortality? 

Or  whence  this  secret  dread,  and  inward  horror, 

Of  falling  into  naught?     Why  shrinks  the  soul 

Back  on  herself,  and  startles  at  destruction  ? 

'Tis  the  divinity  that  stirs  within  us ; 

'Tis  Heaven  itself,  that  points  out  a  hereafter, 

And  intimates  eternity  to  man. 

2.  Eternity! — thou  pleasing,  dreadful  thought! 
Through  what  variety  of  untried  being, 

Through  what  new  scenes  and  changes  must  we  f  asat 

The  wide,  the  unbounded  prospect  lies  before  me ; 

But  shadows,  clouds,  and  darkness  rest  upon  it. 

Here  wnll  I  hold.     If  there's  a  Powder  above  us, — 

And  that  there  is,  all  Nature  cries  aloud 

Through  all  her  works, — He  must  delight  in  virtue ; 

And  that  which  He  delights  in  must  be  happy. 

But  when  ?  or  where  ?     This  world  was  made  for  Cresar. 

I'm  weary  of  conjectures, — this  must  end  them. 

[Laying  his  hand  on  his  sword^ 

3.  Thus  am  I  doubly  arra'd.    My  death^  and  life, 
My  bane  and  antidote,  are  both  before  me. 
This  in  a  moment  brings  me  to  my  end ; 

grandson  of  Cato  the  Censor,  was  born  b.  c.  95.  From  his  youth  he  was 
celebrated  for  his  bravery,  virtue,  decision,  severity,  and  liarshness  ol 
character.  After  earning  a  higli  reputation  as  a  military  tribune  in 
Macedonia,  and  devoting  some  time  to  the  study  of  philosophy,  and  in 
diligent  preparation  for  oflicial  life,  he  was  first  elected  questor  for  b.  c. 
65.  He  was  the  principal  supporter  of  Cicero  in  his  measures  for  sup- 
pressing the  Catilinarian  conspiracy  ;  and  on  the  commencement  of  civil 
war,  in  b.  c.  49,  he  joined  the  party  of  Pompky  against  Caesar.  After 
the  defeat  of  the  former,  Cato  proceeded  to  Africa,  where  the  hopes  of 
the  republican  party  were  finally  extinguished  by  the  battle  of  Thapsus, 
April  0th,  B.  c.  4G.  Failing  to  inspire  his  countrymen,  who  were  col- 
lected at  Utica,  with  courage  to  endure  a  siege,  he  resolved  not  to  out  • 
live  the  downfall  of  the  republic.  After  providing  for  the  safety  of  his 
friends,  and  spending  the  greater  part  of  the  night  in  perusing  Plato's 
Phffido,  he  inflicted  on  himself  the  wound  of  which  he  died,  in  llio 
forty-ninth  year  of  his  age. — 'Plato,  see  p.  145,  rote  5. — •  Caesar,  see 
p.  209,  note  4. — '  Death,  bane,  and  the  first  this,  refer  to  his  sword ; 
and  life,  ant'dot^,  and  the  i-econd  iliu!.  to  the  b'ok  he  held  in  his  hand. 


CATO'S    SOLILOQUY.  513 

But  tliis  informs  me  I  shall  never  die. 

The  soul,  secure  in  her  existence,  smiles 

At  the  drawn  dagger,  and  defies  its  point. 

The  stars  shall  fade  away,  the  sun  himself 

Grow  dim  with  age,  and  Nature  sink  in  years; 

But  thou  shalt  flourish  in  immortal  youth, 

Unhurt  amid  the  war  of  elements. 

The  wreck  of  matter,  and  the  crush  of  worlds.  Addison. 

Joseph  Addison,  the  eldest  son  of  an  able  and  learned  clergyman,  was  boni 
at  his  father's  rectory  of  Milston,  in  Wiltshire,  England,  on  the  first  day  of  May, 
1G72.  He  was  educated  chiefly  at  the  Charter-house  and  at  Oxford,  and  distin- 
guished himself  as  a  writer  of  Latin  verse.  He  took  his  master's  degree  in  1693, 
and  held  a  fellowship  from  1G99  to  17  U.  He  first  appeared  in  print  by  contribu- 
ting English  verses,  some  of  which  are  original,  and  others  translations  from  tho 
classics,  to  Dryden's  Miscellanies.  Political  encouragement  from  the  whig 
jjarty,  soon  after  induced  him  to  write  a  poem  complimenting  King  William  on 
the  campaign  in  which  he  took  Namur.  A  pension,  procured  for  him  by  Lord 
SoMERS,  enableil  him,  in  1G99,  to  visit  the  Continent,  wliere  he  resided  for  three 
ycare.  The  best  of  his  poems,  a  "  Letter  from  Italy,"  was  written  in  1701,  while 
he  weis still  abroad;  and  his  "Travels  in  Italy,"  his  first  extended  prose  work, 
exhibited  his  extensive  knowledge,  and  his  skill  and  liveliness  in  composition. 
Soon  after  his  return  to  England  he  wrote  *'  The  Campaign,"  a  poem  celebrating 
Marlborough's  victory  at  Blenheim,  which,  receiving  extraordinary  applause, 
secured  him  an  appointment,  in  1704,  as  one  of  the  commissioners  of  appeal  in 
excise.  He  became  an  under  secretary  of  state  in  170G,  and  secretary  to  the 
lord-lieutenant  of  Ireland  in  1709,  about  a  year  and  a  half  before  the  dismissal 
of  the  ministry  wiiich  he  served.  From  the  autumn  of  1710  till  the  end  of  1714, 
four  of  the  best  years  of  his  life,  the  opposition  having  deprived  him  of  oHice, 
Addison's  principal  employment  weis  the  composition  of  his  celebrated  Periodical 
Essays.  In  1709  he  began  to  furnish  papers  for  the  "Tatler,"  a  periodical  con- 
ducted by  his  schoolfellow  and  friend,  Richard  Steele,  writing,  in  all,  more 
than  sixty  of  the  two  liundred  and  seventy-one  essays  which  the  work  contained. 
On  the  first  day  of  3Iarch,  1711,  these  two  writers  commenced  the  "  Spectator," 
which  appeared  every  wesk-day  till  the  Gth  day  of  December,  1712.  The  two 
contributing  almost  equally,  seem  together  to  have  written  not  very  much  less 
than  five  hundred  of  the  papers.  On  the  cessation  of  the  "  Spectator,"  Steele 
set  on  foot  the  "  Guardian,"  which,  started  in  March,  1713,  came  to  an  end  in 
October,  with  its  one  hundred  and  seventy-fifth  number,  fifty-three  of  the  papers 
being  Addison's.  In  point  of  style  the  two  friends  resembled  each  other  very 
closely,  vi^hen  dealing  with  familiar  objects  ;  but,  in  the  higher  tones  of  thought 
and  compositioc,  Addison  showed  a  mastery  of  language  raising  him  very  de- 
cisively, not  above  Steele  only,  but  above  all  his  contemporaries.  In  April, 
1713,  he  brought  on  tlie  stage  his  tragedy  of"  Cato,"  which  was  rendered  so  'iii- 
inensely  popular,  partly  through  political  considerations,  as  to  raise  the  reputa- 
tion of  the  author  to  its  highest  point.  The  accession  of  George  I.  occurring  in 
the  latter  part  of  1714,  restored  the  whigs  to  power,  and  thus  again  diverted  Ad- 
dison from  literature  to  politics.  After  acting  as  secretary  to  the  regency,  he 
was  made  one  of  the  lords  of  trade  early  in  1715.  Owing,  it  is  said,  to  the  influ- 
ence of  his  wife,  the  Cou mess- dowager  of  Warwick,  whom  he  had  married  a 
few  niontlis  l)ofore,  he  w;is  induced  to  become  one  of  the  two  jirinci|)ai  secnv 


6J4  NATIONAL    FILTH    liEADEK. 

taries  ot'  slate  in  1717;  but  ill  health  caused  him  to  resign,  eleven  mouths  aflei 
his  appoiiitiiuMit,  from  which  period  he  received  a  pension  of  £1500  a  year.  He 
died  at  Holland  House,  on  the  I7th  of  June,  1719.  His  body,  aft^r  lying  instate, 
was  interred  la  liio  poet's  comer  of  Westminster  Abbey. 


16S.   The  Resurrection. 

MOREOVER,  brethren,  I  declare  unto  you  the  gospel  which  I 
preached  unto  you,  which  also  ye  have  received,  And  wherein 
ye  stand ;  by  which  also  ye  are  saved,  if  ye  keep  in  memory 
what  I  pr6ached  unto  you,  unless  ye  have  believed  in  vain.  For 
I  delivered  unlo  you  first  of  all  that  which  I  also  received,  how 
that  Christ  died  for  our  sins  according  to  the  scriptures;  and 
that  he  was  buried,  and  that  he  rose  again  the  third  day,  accord- 
ing to  the  scriptures;  and  that  he  was  seen  of  Cephas,  then  of 
the  twelve.  After  that  he  was  seen  of  above  five  hundred  breth- 
ren at  once ;  of  whom  the  greater  part  remain  unto  this  present, 
but  some  are  fallen  asleep. 

2.  After  that  he  was  seen  of  James ;  then  of  all  the  apostles ; 
and  last  of  all  he  was  seen  of  me  also,  as  of  one  born  out  of  due 
time.  For  I  am  the  least  of  the  apostles,  that  am  not  meet  to 
be  called  an  apostle,  because  I  persecuted  the  church  of  God. 
But  by  the  grace  of  God  I  am  what  I  am ;  and  his  grace  which 
was  bestowed  upon  me  was  not  in  vain ;  but  I  labored  more 
abundantly  than  they  all :  yet  not  I,  but  the  grace  of  God  which 
was  with  me.  Therefore,  whether  it  were  I  or  they,  so  we  preach, 
and  so  ye  believed. 

3.  Now  if  Christ  be  preached  that  he  rose  from  the  dead,  how 
lay  some  among  you  that  there  is  no  resurrection  of  the  dead? 
But  if  there  be  no  resurrection  of  the  dead,  then  is  Christ  not 
risen.  And  if  Christ  be  not  risen,  then  is  our  preaching  vain,  and 
your  faith  is  also  vain.  Yea,  and  we  are  found  lalse  witnesses  of 
God ;  because  we  have  testified  of  God  that  he  raised  up  Christ : 
whom  he  raised  not  up,  if  so  be  that  the  dead  rise  not.  For  if 
the  dead  rise  not,  then  is  not  Christ  raised:  and  if  Christ  be  not 
raised,  your  faith  is  vain ;  ye  are  yet  in  your  sins.  Then  they 
also  which  are  fallen  asleep  in  Christ  are  perished.  If  in  this  li-'e 
only  we  have  hope  in  Christ,  we  are  of  all  men  most  miserable. 

'  'I'his  selection  is  iin  a/lniirablc  excrrise  in  InflccUans^  sec  p  39 


TUIC    KESUKliECTlON.  515 

4.  But  now  is  Christ  risen  from  the  dead,  ana  become  the 
first  fruits  of  them  that  slept.  For  since  by  man  came  death, 
by  man  came  also  the  resurrection  of  the  dead.  For  as  in 
Adam  all  die,  even  so  in  Christ  shall  all  be  made  alive.  But 
every  man  in  his  own  order :  Christ  the  first  fruits,  afterward 
they  that  are  Christ's  at  his  coming.  Then  cometh  the  end, 
when  he  shall  have  delivered  up  the  kingdom  to  God,  even  the 
Father;  when  he  shall  have  put  down  all  rule,  and  all  authority, 
and  power.  For  he  must  reign,  till  he  hath  put  all  enemies  un- 
der his  feet.  The  last  enemy  that  shall  be  destroyed  is  death. 
For  he  hath  put  all  things  under  his  feet. 

5.  But  when  he  saith,  all  things  are  put  under  him,  it  is  mani- 
fest that  he  is  excepted  which  did  put  all  things  under  liim. 
And  when  all  things  shall  be  subdued  unto  him,  then  shall  the 
Son  also  himself  be  subject  unto  him  that  put  all  things  under 
him,  that  God  may  be  all  in  all.  Else  what  shall  they  do  which 
are  baptized  for  the  dead,  if  the  dead  rise  not  at  all  ?  why  are 
they  then  baptized  for  the  dead  ?  and  why  stand  we  in  jeopardy 
every  hour  ?  I  protest  by  your  rejoicing,  which  I  have  in 
Christ  Jesus  our  Lord,  I  die  daily.  If  after  the  manner  of  men 
I  have  fought  wifli  beasts  at  Ephesus,  what  advantageth  it  me 
if  the  dead  rise  not  ?  let  us  eat  and  drink ;  for  to-morrow  we  die. 

6.  Be  not  deceived ;  evil  communications  corrupt  good  man- 
ners. Awake  to  righteousness,  and  sin  not ;  for  some  have  not 
the  knowledge  of  God.  I  speak  this  to  your  shame.  But  some 
man  will  say.  How  are  the  dead  raised  up,  and  wifh  what  body 
do  they  come  ?  Thou  fool,  that  which  thou  sowest  is  not  quick- 
ened, except  it  die.  And  that  which  thou  sowest,  thou  sowest 
not  that  body  that  shall  be,  but  bare  grain ;  it  may  chance  of 
wheat,  or  of  some  other  grain  :  but  God  giveth  it  a  body  as  it 
hath  pleased  him,  and  to  every  seed  his  own  body. 

7.  All  flesh  is  not  the  same  flesh :  but  there  is  one  kind  of 
flesh  of  men,  another  flesh  of  beasts,  another  of  fishes,  aiul  an- 
other of  birds.  There  are  also  celestial  bodies,  and  bodies  ter- 
restrial :  but  the  glory  of  the  celestial  is  one,  and  the  glory  of 
the  terrestrial  is  another.  There  is  one  glory  of  the  sun,  and 
another  glory  of  the  moon,  and  another  glory  of  the  stars :  for 
one  star  difi'ereth  from  another  star  in  glory.  So  also  is  the 
resurrection  of  the  dead :  it  is  sown  in  corruption,  it  is  raised  iu 


510  NATIONAL    FIFfH    KEADKR. 

incorruption  :  it  is  sown  in  dishonor,  it  is  raised  in  glory  :  it  is 
sown  in  weakness,  it  is  raised  in  power :  it  is  sown  a  natural 
body,  it  is  raised  a  spiritual  body. 

8.  There  is  a  natural  body,  and  there  is  a  spiritual  body. 
And  so  it  is  written,  The  first  man  Adam  was  made  a  living 
fioul,  the  last  Adam  was  made  a  quickening  spirit.  Ilowbcit, 
that  was  not  first  which  is  spiritual,  but  that  which  is  natural ; 
and  afterward  that  which  is  spiritual.  The  first  man  is  of  the 
earth,  earthy ;  the  second  man  is  the  Lord  from  heaven.  As  is 
the  earthy,  such  are  they  also  that  are  earthy ;  and  as  is  the 
heavenly,  such  are  they  also  that  are  heavenly.  And  as  we  have 
borne  the  image  of  the  earthy,  we  shall  also  bear  the  image  of 
the  heavenly. 

9.  Now  this  I  say,  brethren,  that  flesh  anu  blood  can  not  in- 
herit the  kingdom  of  God ;  neither  doth  corruption  inherit  in- 
torruption.  Behold,  I  show  you  a  mystery  :  We  shall  not  all 
sleep,  but  we  shall  all  be  changed,  in  a  moment,  in  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye,  at  the  last  trump;  for  the 'trumpet  shall  sound;  and 
the  dead  shall  be  raised  incorruptible,  and  we  shall  be  changed. 
For  this  corruptible  must  put  on  incorruption,  and  this  mortal 
must  put  on  immortality. 

10.  So  when  this  corruptible  shall  have  put  on  incorruption, 
and  this  mortal  shall  have  put  on  immortality,  then  shall  be 
brought  to  pass  the  saying  that  is  written,  Death  is  swallowed 
np  in  victory.  O  death,  where  is  thy  sting?  0  grave,  where  is 
thy  victory  ?  The  sting  of  death  is  sin,  and  the  strength  of  sin 
is  the  law.  But  thanks  be  to  God  which  giveth  us  the  victory 
through  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ.  Therefore,  my  beloved  breth- 
ren, be  ye  steadfast,  unmovable,  always  abounding  in  the  work 
of  the  Lord,  forasmuch  as  ye  knov/  that  your  labor  is  not  in  vain 
in  the  Lord.  Bible. 


169.   Hope  Tkiumpiiant  in  Death. 

UNFADING  Hope!  when  life's  last  embers  bum,— - 
When  soul  to  soul,  and  dust  to  dust  return, — 
Heaven  to  thy  charge  resigns  the  awful  hour! 
Oh  !  then  thy  kingdom  comes,  Immortal  Power! 
What  though  each  spark  of  earth  born  rapture  fly 


HOl'E    TRIUMrHA>;T    IN    DEATH.  517 

The  quivering  lip,  pale  cheek,  and  closing  eye! 
Bright  to  the  soul  thy  seraph  hands  convey 
The  morning  dream  of  life's  eternal  day  : — 
Then — then,  the  triumph  and  the  trance  begin  ! 
And  all  the  Phenix'  spirit  burns  within ! 

2.  Oh!  deep-enchanting  prerCide  to  repose! 
The  dawn  of  bliss!  the  twilight  of  our  woes! 
Yet  half  I  hear  the  parting  spirit  sigh, 

It  is  a  dread  and  awful  thing  to  die ! — 
Mysterious  worlds,  untravel'd  by  the  sun, 
Where  Time's  far-wandering  tide  has  never  run! 
From  youi  unfathom'd  shades,  and  vic'.vless  spheres, 
A  warning  comes,  unheard  by  other  ears : 
'Tis  Heaven's  commanding  trumpet,  long  and  loud, 
Like  Sinai's  thunder,  pealing  from  the  cloud ! 
While  Nature  hoars,  wifli  terror-mingled  trust, 
The  shock  that  hurls  her  fabric  to  the  dust; 
And,  like  the  trembling  Ilubrew,*^  when  he  trod 
The  roaring  waves,  and  call'd  upon  his  God, 
With  mortal  terrors  clouds  immortal  bliss, 
And  shrieks,  and  hovers  o'er  the  dark  abyss ! 

3.  Daughter  of  Faith,  awake !  arise  !  illume 
The  dread  unknown,  the  chaos  of  the  tomb ! 
Melt  and  dispel,  ye  specter-doubts,  that  roll 
Cimmerian^  darkness  on  the  parting  soul ! 
Fly,  like  the  moon-eyed  herald  of  Dismay, 
Chased  on  his  night-steed  by  the  star  of  day ! 
The  strife  is  o'er — the  pangs  of  Nature  close. 
And  life's  last  rapture  triumphs  o'er  her  woes. 
Hark !  as  the  spirit  eyes,  with  eagle  gaze, 
The  noon  of  heaven,  undazzlcd  by  the  blaze. 
On  heavenly  winds,  that  waft  her  to  the  sky. 
Float  the  sweet  tones  of  star-born  melody ; 

Ph^'  nix,  the  fabulous  bird  wliich  is  said  to  exist  single,  and  to  via* 
acrain  from  its  own  ashes  ;  lience,  used  as  an  emblem  of  immortality. — 
*  Hebrew,  St.  Peter  [Matthew,  chap.  xiv..  v.  30]. — 'Cimm^'rian,  ex- 
tremely dark.  The  Cimmerians  inhabited  a  valley  in  what  is  now  called 
the  Crimea,  which  the  ancients  protended  w.-u?  involve*!  in  daiknossi. 


51  >>  NATIONAL    FU'Tll    KKADKK. 

WiM  as  that  hallOw'd  anthem  sent  to  hail 
licthlchcm's  shepherds  in  the  lonely  vale, 
When  Jordan  hush'd  his  waves,  and  midnight  still 
Watch'd  on  the  holy  towers  of  Zion  hill ! 

4.  Soul  of  the  just !  companion  of  the  dead  ! 

AVhere  is  thy  home,  and  whither  art  thou  fled? 
Back  to  its  heavenly  source  thy  being  goes, 
Swift  as  the  comet  wheels  to  whence  he  rose ; 
Doom'd  on  his  airy  path  awhile  to  burn. 
And  doom'd,  like  thee,  to  travel,  and  return  : — 
Hark !  from  the  world's  exploding  ce»ter  driven, 
Wifli  sounds  that  shook  the  firmament  of  heaven, 
Careers  the  fiery  giant,  fast  and  far, 
On  bickering  wheels,  and  adaman'tine  car ; 
From  planet  wliirl'd  to  planet  more  remote, 
He  visits  realms  beyond  the  reach  of  thought; 
But,  wheeling  homeward,  when  his  course  is  run, 
Curbs  the  red  yoke,  and  mingles  with  the  sun ! 
So  hath  the  traveler  of  earth  unfurl'd 
Her  trembling  wings,  emerging  from  the  world ; 
And,  o'er  the  path  by  mortal  never  trod. 
Sprung  to  her  source — the  bosom  of  her  God  ! 


Campbell. 


170.   Moral  Progress  of  the  American  People.' 

A  KIND  of  reverence  is  paid  by  all  nations  to  antiquity. 
There  is  no  one  that  does  not  trace  its  lineage  from  the 
gods,  or  from  those  who  were  especially  favored  by  the  gods. 
Every  people  has  had  its  age  of  gold,  or  Augustan  age,  or  heroic 
age — an  age,  alas !  forever  passed.  These  prejudices  are  not 
altogether  unwholesome.  Although  they  produce  a  conviction 
of  declining  virtue,  which  is  unfavorable  to  generous  emulation, 
yet  a  people  at  once  ignorant  and  irreverential,  would  necessarily 
become  licentious.  Nevertheless,  such  prejudices  ought  to  be 
modified. 

2.  It  is  untrue,  that  in  the  period  of  a  nation's  rise  fiora  dis- 

>  See  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  ".37.— 'Frmi  aa  Address  at  Yale  Col- 


iloUAL    riiOGliKSS    OF    Till':    AMiailCAN    PKCU'LE.         51'.) 

order  to  refinement,  it  is  not  able  to  continually  surpass  itself. 
^Ve  see  the  j^reserJ,  plainly,  distinctly,  wifli  all  its  coarse  out- 
lines, its  rough  inequalities,  its  dark  blots,  and  its  glaring  de- 
formities. We  hear  all  its  tumultuous  sounds  and  jarring  dis- 
cords. We  see  and  hear  the  past^  through  a  distance  which 
reduces  all  its  inequalities  to  a  plane,  mellows  all  its  shades  into 
a  pleasing  hue,  and  subdues  even  its  hoarsest  voices  into  liar- 
mony. 

3.  In  our  own  case,  the  prejudice  is  less  erroneous  thau  in 
most  others.  The  revolutionary  age  was  truly  a  heroic  one.  [ts 
exigencies  called  forth  the  genius,  and  the  talents,  and  the  vir- 
tues of  society,  and  they  ripened  amid  the  hardships  of  a  long 
and  severe  trial.  But  there  were  selfishness,  and  vice,  and  fac- 
tiows,  then,  as  now,  although  comparatively  subdued  and  re- 
pressed. You  have  only  to  consult  impartial  history,  to  learn 
that  neither  public  faith,  nor  public  loyalty,  nor  private  virtue, 
culminated  at  that  period  in  our  own  country ;  while  a  mere 
glance  at  the  literature,  or  at  the  stage,  or  at  the  politics  of  any 
Europe 'an  country,  in  any  previous  age,  reveals  the  fact  that  it 
was  marked,  more  distinctly  than  the  present,  by  licentious 
morals  and  mean  ambition. 

4.  It  is  only  just  to  infer  in  favor  of  the  United  States  an  im- 
provement of  morals  from  their  established  progress  in  knowl- 
edge and  power ;  otherwise,  the  philosophy  of  society  is  misun- 
derstood, and  we  must  change  all  our  courses,  and  henceforth 
seek  safety  in  imbecility,  and  virtue  in  superstition  and  ignorance. 
What  shall  be  the  test  of  the  national  morals  ?  Shall  it  be  the 
eccentricity  of  crimes  ?  Cp.rtainly  not ;  for  then  we  must  com- 
pare the  criminal  cccenlr>i<-y  of  to-day  wifh  that  of  yesterday. 
The  result  of  the  corappri^.cn  would  be  only  this,  that  the  crimes 
of  society  change  with  changing  circumstances. 

5.  Loyalty  to  the  state  is  a  public  virtue.  Was  it  ever  deeper- 
toned  or  more  universal  than  it  is  now  ?  I  know  there  are  eb- 
nllitions  of  passion  and  discontent,  sometimes  breaking  out  into 
disorder  and  violence ;  but  was  faction  ever  more  effectually  dis- 
armed and  harmless  than  it  is  now  ? — There  is  a  loyalty  that 
springs  from  the  affection  that  we  bear  to  our  native  soil.  This 
we  have  as  strong  as  any  people.  But  it  is  r  ot  the  soil  alone, 
nor  yot  the  si!  bencafli  our  feet  and  the  skies    ner  our  heads, 


520  NATIONAL   FIFfH    EEADER. 

that  constitute  our  country.  It  is  its  freedom,  equality,  justice, 
greatness,  and  glory.  Who  among  us  is  so  low  as  to  be  insen- 
sible of  an  interest  in  them?  Four  hundred  thousand  natives  cl 
other  lands  every  year  voluntarily  renounce  their  own  sovereigns, 
and  swear  feiUty  to  our  own.  Who  has  ever  known  an  AmSn- 
can  to  transfer  his  allegiance  permanently  to  a  foreign  power  ? 

6.  The  spirit  of  the  laws,  in  any  country,  is  a  true  index  to 
the  morals  of  a  people,  just  in  proportion  to  the  power  they 
exercise  in  making  them.  Who  complains  here  or  elsewhere, 
that  crime  or  immorality  blots  our  statute-books  wifli  licentious 
enactments?  The  claracter  of  a  country's  magistrates,  legisla- 
tors, and  captains,  chosen  by  a  people,  reflects  their  own.  It  is 
true  that  in  the  earnest  canvassing  which  so  frequently  recurring 
elections  require,  suspicion  often  follows  the  magistrate,  and 
scandal  follows  in  the  footsteps  of  the  statesman.  Yet,  when 
his  course  has  been  finished,  what  magistrate  has  left  a  name 
tarnished  by  corruption,  or  what  statesman  has  left  an  act  or  an 
opinion  so  erroneous  that  decent  charity  can  not  excuse,  though 
it  may  disapprove?  What  chieftain  ever  tempered  military  tri- 
umph wnth  so  much  moderation  as  he  who,  when  he  had  placed 
our  standard  on  the  battlements  of  the  capital  of  Mexico,  not 
only  received  an  offer  of  supreme  authority  from  the  conquered 
nation,  but  declined  it? 

v.  The  manners  of  a  nation  are  the  outward  form  of  its  inner 
life.  Where  is  woman  held  in  so  chivalrous  respect,  and  where 
does  she  deserve  that  eminence  better?  Where  is  property 
more  safe,  commercial  honor  better  sustained,  or  human  life 
more  sacred  ?  Moderation  is  a  virtue  in  private  and  in  public 
life.  Has  not  the  great  increase  of  private  wealth  manifested 
itself  chiefly  in  widening  the  circle  of  education  and  elevating 
the  standard  of  popular  intelligence  ?  Wifh  forces  which,  if 
combined  and  directed  b}''  ambition,  would  subjugate  this  conti' 
nent  at  once,  we  have  made  only  two  very  short  wars — the  one 
confessedly  a  war  of  defence,  and  the  other  ended  by  paying  for 
a  peace  and  for  a  domain  already  fully  conquered. 

8.  Where  lies  the  secret  of  the  increase  of  virtue  which  has 
thus  been  established  ?  I  think  it  will  be  found  in  the  entire 
emancipation  of  the  consciences  of  men  from  either  direct  or  in- 
direct control  by  established  ccf  Icsiastical  or  political  systems 


MORAL   PKOGKESS   OF   THE    AMERICAN    TKOrLE.        521 

Ileligious  classes,  like  political  parties,  have  been  left  to  compete 
in  the  great  work  of  moral  education,  and  to  entitle  themselves 
to  the  confidence  and  affection  of  society,  by  the  purity  of  their 
faith  and  of  their  morals. 

9.  I  am  well  aware  that  some,  who  may  be  willing  to  adopt 
the  general  conclusions  of  this  argument,  will  object  that  it  is 
not  altogether  sustained  by  the  action  of  the  government  itself, 
Ijowever  true  it  may  be  that  it  is  sustained  by  the  great  action 
of  society.  I  can  not  enter  a  field  where  truth  is  to  be  sought 
among  the  disputations  of  passion  and  prejudice.  I  may  say, 
however,  in  reply  first,  that  the  governments  of  the  United 
States,  although  more  perfect  than  any  other,  and  although  they 
embrace  the  great  ideas  of  the  age  more  fully  than  any  other, 
arc,  nevertheless,  like  all  other  governments,  founded  on  com- 
promises of  some  abstract  truths  and  of  some  natural  rights. 

10.  As  government  is  impressed  by  its  constitution,  so  it  must 
necessarily  act.  This  may  sufiice  to  explain  the  phenomenon 
complained  of.  But  it  is  true,  also,  that  no  government  ever 
did  altogether  act  out,  purely  and  for  a  long  period,  all  the  vir- 
tues of  its  original  constitution.  Hence  it  is  that  we  arc  so  well 
told  by  Bolingbroke,'  that  every  nation  must  perpetually  renew 
its  constitution  or  perish.  Hence,  moreover,  it  is  a  great  excel- 
lence of  our  system,  that  sovereignty  resides,  not  in  congress  and 
the  president,  nor  yet  in  the  governments  of  the  States,  but  in 
the  people  of  the  United  States.  If  the  sovereign  be  lust  and 
firm  and  uncorrupted,  the  governments  can  always  be  brought 
back  from  any  aberrations,  and  even  the  constitutions  themselves, 
if  in  any  degree  imperfect,  can  be  amended.  This  gi'cat  idea  of 
the  sovereignty  of  the  people  over  their  government  glimmers 
in  the  British  s}stcm,  while  it  fills  our  own  wifli  a  broad  and 
glowing  light.  Sewaed. 

'  Henry  St.  John  Viscount  Bolingbugkb,  an  orator,  statesman,  and 
philosophical  essayist,  was  born  at  Battersea,  in  Surrey,  England,  in 
IG72.  He  was  educated  at  Eaton  and  Oxford.  St.  John  entered  par- 
liament in  1701,  and  was  successively  secretary  of  war  and  secretary  of 
state.  He  was  elevated  to  the  peerage  in  1712.  Unfortunately,  none 
of  the  speeches  delivered  by  him  in  either  house  have  been  preserved, 
though  they  are  reported  to  have  been  very  brilliant.  He  died  in  1751, 
and  a  complete  edition  of  his  works,  in  five  volumes,  appeared  soon 
after. 


522  NATIONAL    FltTlI    KKADKK. 

William  IL  Seward,  son  of  Dr.  Samuel  S.  Seward,  oi"  Floriila,  Oiaus« 
county,  New  York,  was  born  in  tliat  village  on  the  Kith  of  iMay,  1^01.  lie  en- 
tered Union  College  in  181G.  After  completing  his  course  with  distinguished 
honor,  he  studied  law  at  New  York  with  John  Antiion,  and  aAerward  with 
John  Duer  and  Ooden  IIoefman.  Soon  after  his  admission  to  the  bar  he  coni- 
menv^jd  practice  in  Auburn,  New  York,  where  he  married  in  1824.  He  rose 
rajiidly  to  distinction  in  his  profession.  In  1828  he  first  took  a  prominent  part  in 
politics,  when  he  labored  for  the  reelection  of  John  Quincy  Adams  to  tlie  presi- 
dency. He  became  a  member  of  the  State  Senate  in  1830,  where  he  remained 
for  four  years.  He  made  a  tour  in  Eurojx;,  of  a  few  months,  in  IS'SJ,  iluriuj; 
which  he  wrote  a  series  of  letters,  which  were  published  in  the  "  Albany  Even- 
ing Journal."  He  was  elected  governor  rf  the  Slate  by  the  whig  party  in  183tf ; 
reelected  in  1840;  but  in  1842,  declining  a  renomination,  retired  to  the  practice 
of  liis  profession.  He  was  chosen  United  States  senator  in  1849,  by  a  large  ma- 
jority ;  and,  on  the  expiration  of  his  term  in  1855,  he  was  reelected  to  the  same 
body.  In  1853  an  edition  of  his  works  was  published  in  New  York,  in  tlirse  oc- 
tavo volumes,  containing  his  speeches  in  the  State  and  national  Senate,  and  bo- 
fore  popular  assemblies,  with  his  messages  as  governor,  his  forensic  arguments, 
miscellaneous  addresses,  letters  i'rom  Europe,  and  selections  from  his  public  cor- 
respondence. His  writings  and  speeches  are  models  of  correct  composition ; 
their  grammatical  construction,  rhetorical  finish,  and  accurate  arrangement, 
rendering  them  well-nigh  faultless.  Though  not  remarkable  for  oratory,  his 
classic  style,  his  perfect  self-control,  his  trutliful  manner,  his  unconniion  sense, 
and  his  thorough  knowledge  of  the  leading  questions  of  the  day,  command  the 
Btteution  and  admiration  of  the  hearer. 


171.  Select  Passages  in  Pkose. 

I.    Our    Common    Schools. — Everett. 

They  give  the  keys  of  knowledge  to  the  mass  of  the  people. 
I  think  it  may  wifli  truth  be  said,  that  the  branches  of  knowl 
edge  taught  in  our  common  schools,  when  taught  in  a  finished, 
masterly  manner, — reading — in  which  I  include  the  spelling  of 
our  language — a  firm,  sightly,  legible  handwriting,  and  the  ele- 
mental rules  of  arithmetic, — are  of  greater  value  than  all  the 
rest  which  is  taught  at  school.  I  am  far  from  saying  that  noth- 
ing else  can  be  taught  at  our  district  schools ;  but  the  young 
person  who  brings  these  from  school,  can  himself,  in  his  winter 
evenings,  range  over  the  entire  field  of  useful  knowledge.  Our 
common  schools  are  important  in  the  same  way  as  the  common 
air,  the  common  sunshine,  the  common  rain, — invaluable  for 
their  commonness.  They  are  the  corner-stone  of  that  municipal 
organization  which  is  the  characteristic  feature  of  our  social  sys- 
tem; they  are  the  fountain  of  that  wide-spread  intelligence, 
which,  like  a  moral  life,  pervades  the  country.     From  the  hum 


SKLKCT    PASSAGES    IN     I'lioSK.  OZO 

blest  village  school  there  may  go  torth  a  teacher  who,  like  New- 
ton,' shall  bind  his  temples  with  the  stars  of  Ori'onV  belt, — with 
Jlerschel,^  light  up  his  cell  with  the  beams  of  before  undiscover- 
ed planets, — with  Frankhn/  grasp  the  hghtning. 

*  Newton,  see  p.  174,  note  2. — '  0  ri'  on,  a  southern  constellation  con- 
taining seventy- eight  stars. — '  William  Herschel,  a  distinguished  as- 
tronomer, was  born  at  Hanover,  on  the  loth  of  November,  1738.  Edu- 
cated as  a  musician,  he  came  to  England  in  1757,  and  immediately  estab- 
lished himself  as  a  teacher  of  music.  In  1766  he  obtained  the  situation 
of  organist  at  Halifax,  and  soon  after  a  more  lucrative  appointment  in 
Bath,  where  he  was  very  successful  as  a  teacher  of  music,  and  a  director 
of  the  public  concerts.  While  at  Halifax  he  acquired  a  considerable 
knowledge  of  mathematics,  and  studied  astronomy.  Anxious  to  see  the 
wonderful  celestial  phenomena  disclosed  by  the  telescope,  and,  fortu- 
nately for  science,  being  unable  to  buy  one,  he  resolved  to  construct 
one  with  his  own  hands.  In  1774  he  completed  a  five-feet  Newtonian 
reflector,  with  which  he  could  see  the  satellites  of  Jupiter  and  the  ring 
of  Saturn  ;  but,  not  being  contented  with  this  instrument,  he  afterward 
constructed  several  hundred,  both  Newtonian  and  Gregorian,  80  of 
which  were  twenty  feet  telescopes.  In  1781  he  discovered  the  new  plan- 
et Uranus.  After  this  first  of  his  numerous  and  brilliant  discoveries, 
George  III.  enabled  him,  by  the  grant  of  a  salary,  to  devote  the  whole 
of  his  time  to  astronomy.  Sir  William  Herschel  was  elected  an  hon- 
orary member  of  most  of  the  scientific  institutions  in  Europe  and  Amer- 
ica ;  received  the  honorary  degree  of  Doctor  of  Laws  in  178G ;  and  in 
1820  was  elected  the  first  president  of  the  Astronomical  Society.  He 
died  on  the  25th  of  August,  1822. — *  Benjamin  Franklin,  an  eminent 
American  moralist;  statesman,  and  philosopher,  was  born  in  Boston, 
Massachusetts,  6th  January,  1706.  The  early  incidents  of  his  life  are, 
happily,  too  familiar  to  require  details.  He  left  Boston  for  Philadelphia 
at  seventeen,  in  1723  ;  visited  England  the  following  year,  where  he 
worked  at  his  trade,  as  printer  ;  and  returned  to  Philadelphia  in  1726. 
He  there  established  himself  as  public  printer,  purchased  the  ' '  Pennsyl- 
vania Gazette,"  which  he  virtually  projected  in  1729  ;  married  in  1730  ; 
assisted  in  founding  the  Philadelphia  Library  in  1731  ;  the  next  year 
published  his  almanac ;  was  chosen,  in  1736,  clerk  of  the  General  As- 
sembly;  became  deputy-postmaster  at  Philadelphia  in  1737;  in  1752 
demonstrated  his  theory  of  the  identity  of  lightning  with  electricity  ; 
was  sent  to  England  as  an  agent  by  the  Assembly  in  1757  ;  received  the 
degree  of  Doctor  of  Laws  from  the  universities  of  Edinburgh  and  Ox- 
ford, and  returned  to  America  in  1762.  Two  years  after  he  returned  to 
England  as  a  colonial  agent ;  returned  again  to  Philadelphia  in  1775; 
signed  the  Declaration  of  Independence  in  Congiess  ;  went  ambassador 
to  France  in  the  same  year  ;  returned,  after  signing  the  treaty  of  peace 
in  1785,  to  America,  when  he  was  made  president  of  the  Common'^  ealtb 


524  NATIONAL    FlFfH    IlEADEK. 

II.  What  Youth  should  Learn. — IIake.' 

The  teaclicrs  of  youth,  in  a  free  country,  should  select  those 
books  for  their  chief  study — so  far,  I  mean,  as  this  world  is  con- 
cerned— Aviiich  are  best  adapted  to  foster  a  spirit  of  manly  free- 
dom. The  di  ty  of  preserving  the  liberty  which  our  ancestors, 
through  God's  blessing,  won,  established,  and  handed  down  to 
ns,  is  no  less  imperative  than  any  commandment  in  the  second 
tible,  if  it  be  not  the  concentration  of  the  whole.  And  is  this 
duty  to  be  learned  from  the  investigations  of  science  ?  Is  it  to 
be  picked  up  in  the  crucible  ?  or  extracted  from  the  properties 
of  lines  and  numbers  ?  I  fear  there  is  a  moment  of  broken 
lights  in  the  intellectual  day  of  civilized  countries,  when,  among 
the  manifold  refractions  of  Knowledge,  Wisdom  is  almost  lost 
sight  of. 

III.  What  Youth  should  be  Taught. — Landor. 

Shame  upon  historians  and  schoolmasters  for  exciting  the 
worst  passions  of  youth  by  the  display  of  ftilse  glories !  If  your 
religion  hath  any  truth  or  influence,  her  professors  will  extin- 
guish the  promontory  lights,  which  only  allure  to  breakeia. 
They  will  be  assiduous  in  teaching  the  young  and  ardent  that 
great  abilities  do  not  constitute  great  men,  without  the  right 
and  unremitting  application  of  them ;  and  that,  in  the  sight  of 
Humanity  and  Wisdom,  it  is  better  to  erect  one  cottage  than  to 
demolish  a  hundred  cities.  Down  to  the  present  day  we  have 
been  taught  little  else  than  falsehood.  We  have  been  told  to 
do  this  thing  and  that;  we  have  been  told  we  shall  be  punished 
unless  we  do ;  but  at  the  same  time  we  are  shown  by  the  finger 
that  prosperity  and  glory,  and  the  esteem  of  all  about  us,  rest 
upon  other  and  very  different  foundations.  Now,  do  the  ears  or 
the  eyes  seduce  the  most  easily,  and  lead  the  most  directly  to 
the  heart?  But  both  cars  and  eyes  are  won  over,  and  alike  arc 
persuaded  to  corrupt  us. 

of  Pennsylvania  for  three  years  ;  was  a  delegate  to  the  Federal  Conven- 
tion in  1787  ;  and  died  April  17th,  1790.  An  edition  of  his  works,  in 
ten  volumes,  has  recently  been  published. — '  CuARLra  Julius  and  Au- 
gustus Hare,  two  brothers,  clergymen  of  the  Clmrch  of  England,  au 
thors  of  "  Guesses  at  Truth,"  fi  mi  which  this  extract  is  taken. 


SELECT    rx\.6SAGKS    IN    l'ii(JSE.  525 

IV.  Education  of  the  Heart. — Scott. 

I  FEAR  you  have  some  very  young  ideas  in  your  head.  Are 
you  not  too  apt  to  measure  things  by  some  reference  to  litera- 
ture— to  disbeheve  that  anybody  can  be  worth  much  care  who 
has  no  knowledge  of  that  sort  of  thing,  or  taste  for  it !  God 
help  us !  what  a  poor  world  this  would  be  if  that  were  the  true 
doctrine !  I  have  read  books  enough,  and  observed  and  con- 
versed with  enough  of  eminent  and  splendidly  cultivated  minds, 
too,  in  my  time ;  but  I  assure  you,  I  have  heard  higher  senti- 
ments from  the  lips  of  the  poor,  uneducated  men  and  women, 
when  exerting  the  spirit  of  severe  yet  gentle  heroism  under  dif- 
ficulties and  afflictions,  or  speaking  their  simple  thoughts  as  to 
circumstances  in  the  lot  of  friends  and  neighbors,  than  I  ever  yet 
met  with  out  of  the  pages  of  the  Bible.  We  shall  never  learn 
to  feel  and  respect  our  reiil  calling  and  destiny,  unless  we  have 
taught  ourselves  to  consider  every  thing  as  moonshine  compared 
with  the  education  of  the  heart. 

V.  Duty. — Dickens. 

O  LATK-REMEMBERED,  much-forgottcn,  moufhiug,  braggart  duty, 
always  owed,  and  seldom  paid  in  any  other  coin  than  punish- 
ment and  wrath,  when  will  mankind  begin  to  know  thee ! 
When  will  men  acknowledge  thee  in  thy  neglected  cradle  and 
thy  stunted  youth,  and  not  begin  their  recognition  in  thy  sinful 
manhood  and  thy  desolate  old  age !  0  ermined  judge,  whose 
duty  to  society  is  now  to  doom  the  ragged  criminal  to  punish- 
ment and  death,  hadst  thou  never,  Man,  a  duty  to  discharge  in 
barring  up  the  hundred  open  gates  that  wooed  him  to  the  felon's 
dock,  and  throwing  but  ajar  the  portals  to  a  decent  life!  O 
prel'ate,  prelate,  whose  duty  to  society  it  is  to  mourn  in  melan- 
choly phrase  the  sad  degeneracy  of  these  bad  times  in  which  thy 
lot  of  honors  has  been  cast,  did  nothing  go  before  thy  elevation 
to  the  lofty  seat,  from  which  thou  dealest  out  thy  homilies  to 
other  tarriers  for  dead  men's  shoes,  whose  duty  to  society  has 
not  begun!  0  magistrate,  so  rare  a  country  gentleman  and 
brave  a  squire,  had  you  no  duty  to  society  before  the  ricks  were 
blazing  and  the  mob  were  mad ;  or  did  it  spring  up  armed  and 
booted  from  the  earth,  a  c(  rns  of  yeomanry,  full  grown! 


526  NATIONAL    FU'TIl    liEADKR. 

VI.  Air  and  Exercise. — London  Quarterly   Review. 

Special  attention  should  be  given,  both  by  parents  and  teach- 
ers, to  the  physical  development  of  the  child.  I'ure  air  and  free 
exercise  are  indispensable,  and  wherever  either  of  these  is  with- 
held the  consequences  will  be  certain  to  extend  themselves  over 
the  whole  future  hfc.  The  seeds  of  protracted  and  hopeless  suf- 
fering have,  in  innumerable  instances,  been  sown  in  the  constitu- 
tion of  the  child  simply  through  ignorance  of  this  great  funda- 
mental physical  law ;  and  the  time  has  come  when  the  united 
voices  of  these  innocent  victims  should  ascend,  "trumpet-tongued," 
to  the  ears  of  every  parent  and  every  teacher  in  the  land.  "Givo 
us  free  air  and  wholesome  exercise ;  give  us  leave  to  develop  our 
expanding  energies  in  accordance  wifh  the  laws  of  our  being; 
give  us  full  scope  for  the  elastic  and  bounding  impulses  of  our 
youthful  blood !" 

VII.  Pampering  the  Body  at  the  Soul's  Expense. — Everett. 

What,  sir,  feed  a  child's  body,  and  let  his  soal  hunger  I  pam- 
per his  limbs,  and  starve  his  faculties !  Plant  the  earth,  cover  a 
thousand  hills  wifh  your  droves  of  cattle,  pursue  the  fish  to  their 
hiding-places  in  the  sea,  and  spread  out  your  wheat-fields  across 
the  plain,  in  order  to  supply  the  wants  of  that  body  wliich  will 
soon  be  as  cold  and  as  senseless  as  the  poorest  clod,  and  let  the 
pure  spiritual  essence  within  you,  with  all  its  glorious  capacities 
for  improvement,  languish  and  pine!  What!  build  factories, 
turn  in  rivers  upon  the  water-wheels,  unchain  the  imprisoned 
spirits  of  steam,  to  weave  a  garment  for  the  body,  and  let  the 
soul  remain  unadorned  and  naked  !  What !  send  out  your  ves- 
sels to  the  furthest  ocean,  and  make  battle  with  the  monsters  of 
the  deep,  in  order  to  obtain  the  means  of  lighting  up  your  dwell- 
ings and  workshops,  and  prolonging  the  hours  of  labor  for  the 
meat  that  pcrishcth,  and  permit  that  vital  spark,  which  God  has 
kindled,  which  he  has  intrusted  to  our  care,  to  be  fanned  into  a 
bright  and  heavenly  flame, — permit  it,  I  say,  to  languish  and  go 
out !  What  considerate  man  can  enter  a  school,  and  not  reflect 
with  awe,  that  it  is  a  seminary  where  immortal  minds  are  train- 
ing for  eternity?  VJhat  parent  but  is,  at  times,  weighed  down 
with  the  thouii'ht,  that  fh.cre  must  be  laid  the  foundanon.s  oT  a 


SELECT  PASSAGES  JN  PROSK.  527 

building  whicli  will  stand,  when  not  merely  temple  and  palace, 
but  the  perpetual  hills  and  adamant^ine  rocks  on  Avliich  they 
rest,  have  melted  away ! — that  a  light  may  there  be  kindled, 
which  will  shine,  not  merely  when  every  artificial  beam  is  ex- 
tinguished, but  when  the  affrighted  sun  has  fled  away  from  the 
heavens ! 

VIII.  The  Necessity  of  Mental  Labor. — Scott. 
I  RELY  upon  it  that  you  are  now  working  hard  in  the  classical 
niine,  getting  out  the  rubbish  as  fast  as  you  can,  and  preparing 
yourself  to  collect  the  ore.  I  can  not  too  much  impress  upon 
your  mind  that  labor  is  the  condition  which  God  has  imposed  on 
us  in  every  station  of  life  :  there  is  nothing  worth  having  that 
can  be  had  without  it,  from  the  bread  which  the  peasant  wins 
with  the  sweat  of  his  brow,  to  the  sports  by  which  the  rich  man 
must  get  rid  of  his  ennui.^  The  only  difference  betwixt  them  is, 
that  the  poor  man  labors  to  get  a  dinner  to  his  appetite,  the  rich 
man  to  get  an  appetite  to  his  dinner.  As  for  knowledge,  it  can 
no  more  be  planted  in  the  human  mind  without  labor,  than  a 
field  of  wheat  can  be  produced  without  the  previous  use  of  the 
plow.  There  is  indeed  this  great  difference,  that  chance  or  cir- 
cumstances may  so  cause  it  that  another  shall  reap  what  the 
farmer  sows ;  but  no  man  can  be  deprived,  whether  by  accident 
or  misfortune,  of  the  fruits  of  his  own  studies ;  and  the  liberal 
and  extended  acquisitions  of  knowledge  which  he  makes  are  all 
for  his  own  use.  Labor,  my  dear  boy,  therefore,  and  improve 
the  time.  In  youth  our  steps  are  light,  and  our  minds  are  duc- 
tile, and  knowledge  is  easily  laid  up.  But  if  we  neglect  our 
spring,  our  summer  will  be  useless  and  contemptible,  our  harvest 
will  be  chaff,  and  the  winter  of  our  old  age  unrespected  and 
desolate. 

IX.  Aptitude  of  Youth  for  Knowledge. — Brougham. 

It  is  not  the  less  true,  because  it  has  been  oftentimes  baid,  that 
the  period  of  youth  is  by  fur  the  best  fitted  for  the  improvement 
of  the  mind,  and  the  retirements  of  a  college  almost  exclusively 
adapted  to  much  study.  At  your  enviable  age,  every  thing  has 
the  lively  interest  of  novelty  and  freshness ;  attention  is  perpet- 

'Eiiuiii  (an  \\6')   l.*\s?itu(le  ;  weariness;  disgust. 


528  NATIONAL   FlbTH    KKAlJER. 

uaily  sharpened  by  curiosity ;  and  the  memory  is  tenacious  of 
the  deep  impressions  it  thus  receives,  to  a  degree  unknown  in 
after-life :  while  the  distracting  cares  of  the  world,  or  its  beguil- 
ing pleasures,  cross  not  the  threshold  of  these  calm  retreats ;  its 
distant  noise  and  bustle  are  faintly  heard,  making  the  shelter 
you  enjoy  more  grateful ;  and  the  struggles  of  anxious  mortals, 
embarked  upon  that  troublous  sea,  are  viewed  from  an  eminence, 
tho  security  of  which  is  rendered  more  sweet  by  the  prospect  of 
tlio  scene  below.  Yet  a  little  while,  and  you,  too,  will  be 
plunged  into  those  waters  of  bitterness,  and  will  cast  an  eye  of 
regret,  as  now  I  do,  upon  the  peaceful  regions  you  have  quitted 
forever. 

Such  is  your  lot  as  members  of  society  ;  but  it  will  be  your 
own  fault  if  you  look  back  on  this  place  with  repentance  or 
with  shame;  and  be  well  assured  that,  whatever  time — ay, 
every  hour — you  squander  here  on  unprofitable  idling,  will  then 
rise  up  against  you,  and  be  paid  for  by  years  of  bitter  but  un- 
availing regrets.  Study  then,  I  beseech  you,  so  to  store  your 
minds  with  the  ex'quisite  learning  of  former  ages,  that  you  may 
always  possess  within  yourselves  sources  of  rational  and  refined 
enjoyment,  which  will  enable  you  to  set  at  naught  the  grosser 
pleasures  of  sense,  whereof  other  men  arc  slaves ;  and  so  imbue 
yourselves  with  the  sound  philosophy  of  later  days,  forming 
yourselves  to  the  virtuous  habits  which  are  its  legitimate  off- 
spring, that  you  may  walk  unhurt  through  the  ti-ials  which 
await  you,  and  may  look  down  upon  the  ignorance  and  error 
that  surround  you,  not  with  lofty  and  supercilious  contempt, 
as  the  sages  of  old  times,  but  with  the  ve'hcment  desire  of  en- 
lightening those  who  wander  in  darkness,  and  who  are  by  so 
much  the  more  endeared  to  us  by  how  much  they  want  oui 
assistance. 


172.  The  Schoolmastek  and  the  Conqueror. 

BUT  there  is  nothing  which  the  adversaries  of  improvement 
are  more  wont  to  make  themselves  merry  with  than  what  is 
termed  the  "  march  of  intellect ;"  and  here  I  will  confess,  that  I 
think,  as  far  as  the  phrase  goes,  they  are  in  the  right.  It  is  a 
v6ry  absurd,  because  a  very  incorrect  expression.     It  is  little 


THE    SCn-'O'^MASTKli    AND    THE   CONQUEKOK.  521* 

calculated  to  describe  the  operation  in  question.  It  docs  not 
picture  an  image  at  all  resembling  the  proceedings  of  the  true 
friends  of  mankind.  It  much  more  resembles  the  progress  of  the 
enemy  to  all  improvement.  The  conqueror  moves  in  a  march. 
lie  stalks  onward  with  the  "  pride,  pomp,  and  circumstance  oi 
war" — banners  flying — shouts  rending  the  air — guns  thunder- 
ing— and  martial  music  pealing,  to  drown  the  shrieks  of  the 
1^'0unded,  and  the  lamentations  for  the  slain. 

2.  Not  thus  tho  schoolmaster,  in  his  peaceful  vocation.  He 
meditates  and  prepares  in  secret  the  plans  which  are  to  bless 
mankind ;  he  slowly  gathers  round  him  those  who  are  to  further 
their  execution — he  quietly,  though  firmly,  advances  in  his 
humble  path,  laboring  steadily,  but  calmly,  till  he  has  opened  to 
the  light  all  the  recess'es  of  ignorance,  and  torn  up  by  the  roots 
the  weeds  of  vice.  His  is  a  progress  not  to  be  compared  wifli 
any  thing  like  a  march  ;  but  it  leads  to  a  far  more  brilliant 
triumph,  and  to  laurels  more  imperishable  than  the  destroyer  of 
his  species,  the  scourge  of  the  world,  ever  won. 

3.  Such  men — men  deserving  the  gl5rious  title  of  Teachers 
of  Mankind — I  have  found,  laboring  conscientiously,  though, 
perhaps,  obscurely,  in  their  blessed  vocation,  wherever  1  have 
gone.  I  have  found  them,  and  shared  their  fellowship,  among 
the  daring,  the  ambitious,  the  ardent,  the  indomitably  active 
French ;  I  have  found  them  among  the  persevering,  resolute, 
mdustrious  Swiss ;  I  have  found  them  among  the  laborious,  t?"*^ 
(varm-hearted,  the  enthusiastic  Germans;  I  have  found  then, 
imong  the  high-minded,  but  enslaved  Italians ;  and  in  our  own 
country,  God  be  thanked,  their  number,  everywhere  abound,  and 
are  every  day  increasing. 

4.  Their  calling  is  high  and  holy ;  their  fame  is  the  property 
of  nations;  their  renown  will  fill  the  earth  in  after  ages,  in  pro- 
portion as  it  sounds  not  far  off  in  their  own  times.  Each  one  ot 
those  great  teachers  of  the  world,  possessing  his  soul  in  peace, 
performs  his  appointed  course  ;  awaits  in  patience  the  fulfillment 
of  the  promises;  and,  resting  from  his  labors,  bcqueafhs  his 
memory  to  the  generation  whom  his  works  have  blessed,  and 
sleeps  under  the  humble  but  not  inglorious  epitaph,  commemo- 
rating "  one  in  whom  mankind  lost  a  friend,  and  no  man  got  rid 
of  an  enemy.'*'  Bboiuiiam. 

23 


630  NATIONAL   FIFTH    RKADER. 

Henrt  Brougham,  the  distinguished  philanthropist,  orator,  and  statesman, 
was  bom  in  Westmoreland,  England,  in  1779,  lie  received  his  preparatory 
education  at  the  high  school  in  Edinburgh,  and  in  1795  entered  the  university, 
where  his  course  was  a  complete  triumph.  He  was  one  of  the  projectors  and 
chief  contributors  of  the  Edinburgh  Review,  and  in  1803  published  "  An  ln«iuiry 
into  the  Colonial  Policy  of  the  European  Powers,"  which  at  once  called  the 
attention  of  the  public  to  its  author.  After  his  admission  to  the  Scottish  bar,  he 
visited  the  north  of  Europe,  and  on  his  return  commenced  practice  in  tlie  Court 
of  King's  Bench,  London,  where  he  soon  gained  both  popularity  and  emolument. 
fie  first  entered  Parliament  in  1810,  and  here  the  vastness  and  universality  ot 
his  acquirements,  his  singular  activity,  and  untiring  energies  rendered  him  very 
serviceable  in  the  promotion  of  reforms.  He  was  elected  Lord  Rector  of  the 
University  of  Glasgow  in  18^5,  and  was  president  of  the  "  Society  for  the  Dif 
fusion  of  Useful  Knowledge,"  established  in  1827.  He  was  appointed  Lord 
Chancellor  and  elevated  to  the  peerage  in  1830.  Since  1834  he  has  been  con- 
stantly exerting  his  transcendent  abilities  in  the  House  of  Lords  in  favor  of  all 
measures  that  are  calculated  to  advance  the  best  interests  of  society.  Among 
his  most  valuable  works  are,  "  Biography  of  Eminent  Statesmen  and  Men  of 
Letters  in  the  Reign  of  George  HI.,"  3  vols. ; "  A  Discourse  on  Natural  Theology," 
and  an  edition  of  his  Parliamentary  Speeches,  revised  by  himself.  His  speeches 
onquestlonably  stand  in  the  very  first  rank  of  oratorical  masterpieces. 


173.  The  Famine. 

1.  f\  THE  long  and  dreary  Winter! 
^  O  the  cold  and  cruel  Winter  ! 
Ever  thicker,  thicker,  thicker 
Froze  the  ice  on  lake  and  river ; 
Ever  deeper,  deeper,  deeper 
Fell  the  snow  o'er  all  the  landscape, 
Fell  the  covering  snow,  and  drifted 
Through  the  fCrest,  round  the  village. 
Hardly  from  his  buried  wigwam 
Could  the  hunter  force  a  passage ; 
With  his  mittens  and  his  snow-shoes 
Vainly  walkM  he  through  the  forest, 
Sought  for  bird  or  beast  and  found  none. 
Saw  no  track  of  deer  or  rabbit. 
In  the  snow  beheld  no  footprints, 
In  the  ghastly,  gleaming  forest 
Fell,  and  could  not  rise  from  weakness, 
PerishM  there  from  cold  and  hunger. 

2. 0  the  famine  and  the  fever ! 
0  the  wasting  of  the  famine ! 


THE    FAMINE.  53 J 

O  the  blasting  of  the  fever ! 
O  the  wailing  of  the  children ! 

0  the  anguish  of  the  women ! 

All  the  earth  was  sick  and  famished  *, 
Hungry  was  the  air  around  them, 
Hungry  was  the  sky  above  them, 
And  the  hungry  stars  in  heaven 
Like  the  eyes  of  wolves  glared  at  them . 

3.  Into  Hiawatha's*  wigwam 
Came  two  other  guests,  as  silent 
As  the  ghosts  were,  and  as  gloomy, 
Waited  not  to  be  invited, 

Did  not  parley  at  the  doorway. 
Sat  there  without  word  of  welcome 
In  the  seat  of  Laughing  Water ; 
Looked  wifti  haggard  eyes  and  hollow 
At  the  face  of  Laughing  Water. 
And  the  foremost  said :  "  Behold  me  I 

1  am  Famine,  Bukadawin !" 

And  the  other  said !  "  Behold  me ! 
I  am  Fever,  Ahkosewin !" 
And  the  lovely  Minneha'ha' 
Shudder'd  as  they  look'd  upon  her, 
Shudder'd  at  the  words  they  utter'd, 
Lay  down  on  her  bed  in  silence. 
Hid  her  face,  but  made  no  answer ; 
Lay  there  trembling,  freezing,  burning 
At  the  looks  they  cast  upon  her, 
At  the  fearful  words  they  utter'd. 

4.  Forth  into  the  empty  forest 
Rushed  the  madden'd  Hiawatha ; 
In  his  heart  was  deadly  sorrow, 
In  his  face  a  stony  firmness, 

*  Hiawatha  (he  a  wa' tha),  the  wise  man,  the  teacher;  the  name  of 
the  hero  of  the  tale. — '  Minneha'ha,  Laughing  Water,  a  water-fall  ou 
a  stream  running  into  the  Mississippi,  between  Fort  Snelling  and  the 
falls  of  St.  Anthony;  the  Indian  name  of  Hiawatha's  wife,  the  heroine 
of  the  iiile 


532  NATIONAL    FIFfH    KEADER. 

On  Lis  brow  the  sweat  of  anguish 
Started,  but  it  froze  and  fell  not. 
Wrapp'd  in  furs  and  arm'd  for  hunting, 
With  his  mighty  bow  of  ash-tree, 
With  his  quiver  full  of  arrows, 
With  his  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 
Into  the  vast  and  vacant  forest 
On  his  snow-shoes  strode  he  forward. 

6.  "Gitche  Man'ito,'  the  Mighty!" 
Cried  he  with  his  face  uplifted 
In  that  bitter  hour  of  anguish, 
"Give  your  children  food,  O  father  I 
Give  us  food,  or  we  must  perish ! 
Give  me  food  for  Minnehaha, 
For  my  dying  Minnehaha !" 
Through  the  far-resounding  forest, 
Through  the  forest  vast  and  vacant 
Hang  that  cry  of  desolation. 
But  there  came  no  other  answer 
Than  the  echo  of  his  crying. 
Than  the  echo  of  the  woodlands, 
"  Minnehaha  !  Minnehaha  !" 

fi.  All  day  long  roved  Hiawatha 
In  that  melancholy  forest. 
Through  the  shadow  of  whose  thickets, 
In  the  pleasant  days  of  Summer, 
Of  that  ne'er  forgotten  Summer, 
He  had  brought  his  young  wife  homeward 
From  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs ;' 
When  the  birds  sang  in  the  thickets, 
And  the  streamlets  laughM  and  glistened. 
And  the  air  was  full  of  fragrance, 
And  the  lovely  Laughing  Water 
Said  wifh  voice  that  did  not  tremble, 
"  I  will  follow  you,  my  husband !" 

•GiTCiiB  Man'ito,  the  Great  Spirit;  the  Master  of  Life.--«Dilc6'tah 
or  Sioux  Indians,  a  numerous  and  powerful  tribe,  inhabitine:  the  terri- 
tory between  the  Missouri  aiul  Mississippi  rivers. 


l-HE  FAMINE.  533 

7    In  the  wigwam  wifti  Noko'rais,' 

With  those  gloomy  guests,  that  watch'd  her 

With  the  Famine  and  the  Fever, 

She  was  lying,  the  Beloved, 

She  the  dying  Minnehaha. 

**  Hark !"  she  said,  "  I  hear  a  rushing, 

Hear  a  roaring  and  a  rushing, 

Hear  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 

Calling  to  me  from  a  distance !" 

**  No,  my  child !"  said  old  Nokomis, 

"  'T  is  the  night-wind  in  the  pine-trees !" 

"  Look !"  she  said ;  "  I  see  my  father 

Standing  lonely  at  his  doorway. 

Beckoning  to  me  from  his  wigwam 

In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs !" 

"  No,  my  child !"  said  old  Nokomis, 

**  'T  is  the  smoke  that  waves  and  beckons  P 

8.  "  Ah !"  she  said,  "  the  eyes  of  Pau'guk* 
Glare  upon  me  in  the  darkness, 
I  can  feel  his  icy  fingers 
Clasping  mine  amid  the  darkness ! 
Hiawatha!  Hiawatha!" 
And  the  desolate  Hiawatha, 
Far  away  amid  the  forest. 
Miles  away  among  the  mountains, 
Heard  that  sudden  cry  of  anguish, 
Heard  the  voice  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  him  in  the  darkness, 
"  Hiawatha  !  Hiawatha  !" 

9    Over  snow-fields  waste  and  pathless. 
Under  snow  encumbered  branches. 
Homeward  hurried  Hiawatha, 
Empty-handed,  heavy-hearted. 
Heard  Nokomis  moaning,  wailing : 
"  Wahono'win ! '  Wahonowin  ! 
Would  that  I  had  perish'd  for  you, 

'  Noko'mis.,  the  grandmother  of  Hiawatha. — '  Pau'quk,  death. — '  Wa- 
ho  no'  win,  an  Indian  cry  of  lamentation. 


6.'U  NATIONAL   FirrU    EEADEK. 

Would  that  I  were  dead  as  you  are ! 
Wahonowin !  Wahonowin !" 
And  he  rush'd  into  the  wigwam, 
Saw  the  old  Nokomis  slowly 
Rocking  to  and  fro  and  moaning, 
Saw  his  lovely  Minnehaha 
Lying  dead  and  cold  before  him, 
And  his  bursting  heart  within  him 
Utter'd  such  a  cry  of  anguish. 
That  the  forest  moan'd  and  shudder'd, 
That  the  v6ry  stars  in  heaven 
Shook  and  trembled  with  his  anguish. 

10.  Then  he  sat  down  still  and  speechless, 
On  the  bed  of  Minnehaha, 

At  the  feet  of  Laughing  Water, 
At  those  willing  feet,  that  never 
More  would  lightly  run  to  meet  him. 
Never  more  would  lightly  follow. 
With  both  hands  his  face  he  coverM, 
Seven  long  days  and  nights  he  sat  there, 
As  if  in  a  swoon  he  sat  there, 
Speechless,  motionless,  unconscious 
Of  the  daylight  or  the  darkness. 

11.  Then  they  buried  Minnehaha; 

In  the  snow  a  grave  they  made  her, 
In  the  ^rest  deep  and  darksome, 
Undernea&  the  moaning  hemlocks ; 
Clothed  her  in  her  richest  garments. 
Wrapped  her  in  her  robes  of  ermine, 
Cover'd  her  wifh  snow,  like  ermine : 
Thus  they  buried  Minnehaha. 
And  at  night  a  fire  was  lighted. 
On  her  grave  four  times  was  kindled, 
For  her  soul  upon  its  journey 
To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed. 
From  his  doorway  Hiawatha 
Saw  it  burning  in  the  forest, 
Lighting  up  the  gloomy  hemlocks ; 


ABKAliAM    A^U    THE    FIRE-WOliSUIPER.  636 

Froiu  liis  sleepless  bed  uprising, 
From  the  bid  of  Minnehaha, 
Stood  and  watch'd  it  at  the  doorway, 
That  it  might  not  be  extinguibh'd. 
Might  not  leave  her  in  the  darkness. 

12    "  Farewell !"  said  he,  "  Minnehuha ! 
Farewell,  0  my  Laughing  Water ! 
All  my  heart  is  buried  with  you, 
All  my  thoughts  go  onward  with  you  I 
Come  not  back  again  to  labor, 
Come  not  back  again  to  suffer. 
Where  the  Famine  and  the  Fever 
Wear  the  heart  and  waste  tlie  body. 
Soon  my  task  will  be  completed. 
Soon  your  footsteps  I  shall  foDow 
To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed, 
To  the  Kingdom  of  Pone'mah,' 
To  the  Land  of  the  Hereafter  1" 

H.  W.  Longfellow.* 

»  ■ 

174.  Abraham  and  the  Fike-Woeshipee. 

Scene — The  inside  of  a  Tent,  in  which  the  Patriarch  Abraham 
and  a  Persian  Traveler,  a  Fire-Worshiper^  are  sittimj 
awhile  after  supper. 

Fire-  Worshiper  [aside'].   What  have  I  said,  or  done,  that  by 
degrees 
Mine  host  hath  changed  his  gracious  countenance. 
Until  he  stareth  on  me,  as  in  wrath ! 
Have  I,  'twixt  wake  and  sleep,  lost  his  wise  lore  ? 
Or  sit  I  thus  too  long,  and  he  himself 
Would  fain  be  sleeping?     I  will  speak  to  that. 
[^Aloud.]  Impute  it,  O  my  great  and  gracious  lord* 
TJnto  my  feeble  flesh,  and  not  my  folly, 
If  mine  old  eyelids  droop  against  their  will, 
And  I  become  as  one  that  hath  no  sense 
E'en  to  the  milk  and  honey  of  thy  words. — 

*  Po  n&'  mah,  hereafter. — *  See  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  868. 


536  NATIONAL  FIFTH   KEADEJl. 

Wifli  my  lord's  leave,  and  his  good  servant's  help, 
My  limbs  would  creep  to  bed. 

Abraham  \angrily  quitting  his  seat'\.  In  tliis  tent,  never. 
Thou  art  a  tiankless  and  an  im'pious  man. 

Fire-W.  [rising  in  astonishment].  A  thankless  and  an  impioiia 
man !     0  sir 
My  thanks  have  all  but  worship'd  thee. 
,    Abraham.  And  whom 

Forgotten  ?  like  the  fawning  dog  I  feed. 
From  the  foot-washing  to  the  meal,  and  now 
To  this  thy  cramm'd  and  dog-like  wish  for  bed, 
I've  noted  thee ;  and  never  hast  thou  breathed 
One  syllable  of  prayer,  or  praise,  or  thanks. 
To  the  great  God  who  made  and  feedeth  all. 

Fire-  W.  0  sir,  the  god  I  worship  is  the  Fire, 
The  god  of  gods ;  and  seeing  him  not  here, 
In  any  symbol,  or  on  any  shrine, 
I  waited  till  he  bless'd  mine  eyes  at  morn, 
Sitting  in  heaven. 

Abraham.  O  foul  idolater ! 

And  darest  thou  still  to  breathe  in  Abraham's  tent  ? 
Forth  wifh  thee,  wretch ;  for  he  that  made  thy  god, 
And  all  thy  tribe  and  all  the  host  of  heaven, 
The  invisible  and  only  dreadful  God, 
Will  speak  to  thee  this  night,  out  in  the  storm, 
And  try  thee  in  thy  foolish  god,  the  Fire, 
Which  with  his  fingers  he  makes  lightnings  of. 
Hark  to  the  rising  of  his  robes,  the  winds. 
And  get  thee  forth,  and  wait  him. 

[yl  violent  storm  is  heard  rising 

Fire-  W.  What !  unhoused ; 

And  on  a  night  like  this !  me,  poor  old  man, 
A  hundred  years  of  age ! 

Abraham  \iirging  him  awa.y\  Not  reverencing 
The  God  of  ages,  thou  revoltest  reverence. 

Fire-  W.  Thou  hadst  a  father ; — think  of  his  gray  hairs, 
Houseless,  and  cuff 'd  by  such  a  storm  as  this. 

Abraham.  God  is  thy  father,  and  thou  own  st  not  him. 

Fire-  W.   '  have  a  wife,  as  aged  as  myself, 


ABKAHAM   ANL>   THE   FLKE-W0K6H1PER.  537 

And  if  she  learn  my  deatli,  she'll  not  survive  it, 
No,  not  a  day ;  she  is  so  used  to  me ; 
So  propp'd  up  by  her  other  feeble  self. 
I  pray  thee,  strike  us  not  both  down. 

Abraham  [still  urging  hira],         God  made 
Husband  and  wife,  and  must  be  own'd  of  them, 
P^Ise  he  must  needs  disown  them. 

Fire-  W.  We  have  children, — 

One  of  them,  sir,  a  daughter,  who,  next  week. 
Will  all  day  long  be  going  in  and  out. 
Upon  the  watch  for  me ;  she,  too,  a  wife. 
And  will  be  soon  a  mother.     Spare,  oh  spare  her  I 
She's  a  good  creature,  and  not  strong. 

Abraham^  Mine  ears 

Are  deaf  to  all  things  but  thy  blasphemy. 
And  to  the  coming  of  the  Lord  and  God, 
Who  will  this  night  condemn  thee. 

[Abraham  pushes  him  out ;  and  remains  alone,  speaking. 
For  if  ever 
God  came  at  night-time  forth  upon  the  world, 
'Tis  now  this  instant.     Hark  to  the  huge  winds, 
The  cataracts  of  hail,  and  rocky  thunder. 
Splitting  like  quarries  of  the  stony  clouds. 
Beneath  the  touchinor  of  the  foot  of  God ! 
That  was  God's  speaking  in  the  heavens, — that  last 
And  inward  utterance  coming  by  itself. 
What  is  it  shaketh  thus  thy  servant.  Lord, 
Making  him  fear,  that  in  some  loud  rebuke 
To  this  idolater,  whom  thou  abhorrest, 
Terror  will  slay  himself?     Lo,  the  earth  quakes 
Jieneath  my  feet,  and  God  is  surely  here. 

\^A  dead  silence  ;  and  then  a  still  small  voice 

The  Voice.  Abraham! 

Abraham.  Where  art  thou.  Lord  ?  and  who  is  it  that  speak? 
So  sweetly  in  mine  ear,  to  bid  me  turn 
And  dare  to  face  thy  presence  ? 

The  Voice.  Who  but  He 

Whose  mightiest  utterance  thou  hast  yet  to  learn  ? 
r  was  not  in  the  w]iirl\vin<l,  Abniham ; 


538  '*  NA'nONAL    FIFPH    READEK. 

I  was  not  in  the  thunder,  or  the  earthquake ; 

But  I  am  in  the  still  small  voice. 

Where  is  the  stranger  whom  thou  tookest  in  ? 

Abraham.  Lord,  he  denied  thee,  and  I  drove  him  forth. 

The  Voice.  Then  didst  thou  do  what  GSd  himself  forbore 
Have  I,  although  he  did  deny  me,  borne 
Wifh  his  injuriousness  these  hundred  years. 
And  couldst  thou  not  endure  him  one  sole  night, 
And  such  a  night  as  this  ? 

Abraham.  Lord !  I  have  sinn'd, 

d  will  go  forth,  and  if  he  be  not  dead. 
Will  call  him  back,  and  tell  him  of  thy  mercies 
Both  to  himself  and  me. 

The  Voice.  Behold,  and  learn 

[The  Voice  retires  while  it  is  speaking  ;  and  a  fold  of  the  tent  ii 
turned  back,  disclosing  the  Fire-Worshiper,  who  is  calmly 
sleeping,  with  his  head  on  the  back  of  a  house-lamb, 

Abraham.  0  loving  God !  the  lamb  itself 's  his  pillow, 
And  on  his  forehead  is  a  balmy  dew. 
And  in  his  sleep  he  smileth.     I,  meantime. 
Poor  and  proud  fool,  wifh  my  presumptuous  hands 
Not  God's,  was  dealing  judgments  on  his  head. 
Which  God  himself  had  cradled ! — Oh,  methinks 
There's  more  in  this  than  prophet  yet  hath  known, 
A I  »l  Faith,  some  day,  will  all  in  Love  be  shown. 

Household  Wobdh. 

175.  Address  to  the  Ls^dolent.* 

\,  TS  not  the  field  wifli  lively  culture  green 

X  A  sight  more  joyous  than  the  dead  morSss'  ? 
Do  not  the  skies,  with  active  e'ther  clean. 
And  fann'd  by  sprightly  zephyrs,  far  surpass' 
The  foul  November  fogs,  and  slumberous  mass,' 
With  which  sad  Nature  vails  her  drooping  face  ? 

Does  not  the  mountain-stream,  as  clear  as  glas?,^ 
Gay  dancing''  on,  the  putrid  pool  disgrace? — 
The  same  in  all  holds  true,  but  chief  in  human  race. 
'From  "Tlie  Castle  of  liulolcnce."— 'Surpiss'.— »Mdss.— *Glfc8  - 


IDDKl^SS    TO    niE    INDOLENT.  53U 

2      t  WHS  noi:  by  vile  loitering  in  ease 

That  Greece  obtain'd  the  brighter  palm'  ot  wt, 
That  soft  yet  ardent  Ath'ens  learnt  to  please, 
To  keen  the  wit,  and  to  sublime  the  heart, — 
In  all  supreme !  complete  in  every  part ! 
It  was  not  thence  majestic  Rome  arose. 

And  o'er  the  nations  shook  her  conquering  dart ! 
For  sluggard's  brow  the  laurel  never  grows ; 
Renown  is  not  the  child  of  indolent  repose. 

3.  Had  unambitious  mortals  mmded  nauccht 

But  in  loose  joy  their  time  to  wear^  away, — 
Ilad  they  alone  the  lap  of  dallianci  sought, 

^leased  on  her  pillow  their  dull  he&ds  to  lay, — 

Rude*  Nature's  state  had  been  our  state  to-day ; 
No  cities  e'er''  their  towery  fronts  had  raised, 

No  arts  had  made  us  opulent  and  gay ; 
Wifh  brother-brutes*  the  human  race  had  grazed ; 
None^  e'er  had  soar'd  to  fame,  none  honor'd  been,  none  praised. 

4 .  But  should  your  hearts  to  fame  unfeeling  be. 

If  right  I  read,  you  pleasure  all  require : 
Then  see  how  best  may  be  obtain'd  this  fee, 

How  best  enjoy'd  this,  nature's  wide  desire. 

Toil  and  be  glad  !  let  In'dustry  inspire 
Into  your  quicken'd  limbs  her  buoyant^  breath  * 

Who  does  not  act  is  dead ; — absorpt  entire 
In  miry  sloth,  no  pride,  no  joy  he  hath : 
O  leaden-hearted  men,  to  be  in  love  with  death  I 

5.  Ah !  what  avail  the  largest  gifts  of  Heaven, 

When  drooping  health  and  spirits  go  amiss  f 
How  tasteless  then  whatever  can  be  given ! 

Health  is  the  vital  principle  of  bliss. 

And  exercise  of  health.     In  proof  of  this, 
Behold  the  wretch  who  slugs®  his  life  away, 

Soon  swallow'd  in  disease's  sad  abyss, 

» VUm.—*  Wear  (w^i).— » Rude  (i5d).— *  E'er  ( dr).— •  Brutes  (br6tz).— 
'None  (nun)  — •''  Baoyuut  (bwM'aut).—  Slujj,  play  the  droua ;  lie  Idle. 


54:0  NATIONAL    FIl-TlJ    REAhKR. 

While  he  whom  toil  has  braced,  or  manlj  play, 
Has  light  as  air'  each  limb,  each  thought  as  clear  as  day. 

6.  Oh,  who  can  speak  the  vigorous  joy  of  health, — 
Unclogg'd  the  body,  unobscured  the  mind  I 
The  morning  rises  gay,  wifh  pleasing  stealth. 
The  temperate  evening  fahs  serene  and  kind. 
In  health  the  wiser  brutes  true  gladness  find. 
See!  how  the  younglings  frisk  along  the  meads. 

As  May  comes  on,  and  wakes  the  balmy'^  wind ; 
Rampant  wifh  life,  their  joy  all  joy  exceeds  ; 
Yet  what  but  high-strung  health  this  dancing  pleasaunce*t>reeda! 

1    There^  are,  I  see,  who  listen  to  my  lay. 

Who  wretched  sigh  for  virtue,*  yet  despair.* 
"  All  may  be  done,"  methinks  I  hear  them  say, 
"  Even  death  despised  by  generous  actions  fair, — ^ 
All,  but  for  those  who  to  these  bowers  repair  I' 
Their  every  power  dissolved  in  luxury. 

To  quit  of  torpid  sluggishness  the  lair,' 
And  from  the  powerful  arms  of  sloth  get  free — 
'Tis  J  ising  from  the  dead : — Alas  ! — it  can  not  be  1" 

8.  Would  you,  then,  learn'°  to  dissipate  the  band 
Of  these  huge  threatening  difficulties  dire. 
That  in  the  weak  man's  way  like  lions  stand. 
His  soul  appall,  and  damp  his  rising  fire  ? 
Resolve — resolve  !  and  to  be  men  aspire. 
Exert  that  noblest  privilege, — alone 

Here  to  mankind  indulged ; — control  desire : 
Let  godlike  Reason,  from  her  sovereign"  throne, 
Speak  the  commanding"*  word,  I  will  ! — and  it  is  done. 

TUOMSON." 


H 


176.  The  Poet. 
OW  glorious,  above  all  earthly  glory,  are  the  faculty  and 
mission  of  the  Poet!     His  are  the  flaming  thoughts  that 


'  Air  (dr). — ■■•  BSZm'  y. — •  Pleasaunce,  an  ancient  form  of  the  word  pleas- 
ure.— *  There  (th&r). —  Virtue  (vSrf  yu). — •  De  sp&ir'. — '  Fiir. — *  lie  pAn'. 
— •  L&tr.--"'  Lfiam.— ""  Sovereign  (s&v'  er  in).—"  Com  mind'  ing.  — "  See 
Biographical  Sketch,  j).  75. 


THE    POET.  511 

pierce  the  vail  of  heaven — his  are  the  feelings,  which  on  the 
wings  of  rapture  sweep  over  the  abyss  of  ages.  The  star  of  his 
being  is  a  splendor  of  the  world. 

2.  The  Poet's  state  and  attributes  are  half  divine.  The 
breezes  of  gladness  are  the  heralds  of  his  approach  ;  the  glimpse 
of  his  coming  is  as  the  flash  of  the  dawn.  The  hues  of  Con- 
r[uest  flush  his  brow  :  the  anger  of  triumph  is  in  his  eyes.  The 
secret  of  Creation  is  wifh  him ;  the  mystery  of  the  Immortal  is 
among  his  treasures.  The  doom  of  unending  sovereignty  is  upon 
his  nature. 

3.  The  meditations  of  his  mind  are  Angels,  and  their  issuing 
forth  is  wifli  the  strength  of  eternity.  The  talisman'  of  his 
speech  is  the  scepter  of  the  free.  The  decrees  of  a  dominion 
whose  sway  is  over  spirits,  and  whose  continuance  is  to  ever- 
lasting, go  out  from  before  him ;  and  that  ethereal  essence,  which 
is  the  uniamable  in  man — which  is  the  liberty  of  the  Infinite 
within  the  bondage  of  life — is  obedient  to  them.  His  phrases 
are  the  forms  of  Power  :  his  syllables  are  agencies  of  Joy. 

4.  Wifh  men  in  his  sympathies,  that  he  may  be  above  them 
in  his  influence,  his  nature  is  the  jewel-clasp  that  binds  Hu- 
manity to  Heaven.  It  mediates  between  the  earthly  and  celes- 
tial :  in  the  vigor  of  his  production,  divinity  becomes  substantial ; 
in  the  sublimity  of  his  apprehensions,  the  material  loses  itself 
into  spirit.  It  is  his  to  drag  forth  the  eternal  from  our  mortal 
form  of  being — to  tear  the  Infinite  into  our  bounden  state  of 
action. 

5.  What  conqueror'  has  troops  like  his  ? — the  spirit-forces  of 
Language' — those  subtle  slaves  of  Mind,  those  impetuous  master? 
of  the  Passions ;  whose  mysterious  substance  who  can  compre- 
hend— whose  mighty  operation  what  can  combat  ?  Evolved, 
none  knoweth  how,  within  the  curtained  chambers  of  existence 
— half-physical,  half-ideal,  and  finer  than  all  the  agencies  of 
Time — linked  together  by  spells,  which  are  the  spontaneous  magic 
of  genius,  which  he  that  can  use,  never  understands — the  weird* 

'  Talisman  (thV  iz  man),  something  formed  by  magical  skill,  to  which 
wonderful  effects  were  ascribed,  such  as  preservation  from  sickness,  in- 
jury, &c.  ;  figuratively,  that  which  produces  remarkable  effects. — 'Con- 
queror (k6ng' kcr  or). — 'Language  (Ung'gwaj). — *  W^zrd,  skilled  in 
"vitchcraft. 


542  iVAllONAi.    FIFTIJ     KKADKfl. 

hosts  of  words  Hy  forth,  silently,  wifii  silver  wings,  to  win  re- 
sistlcssly  against  the  obstacles  of  Days,  and  Distance,  and  De- 
struction, to  fetter  nations  in  the  viewless  chains  of  admiration, 
and  be,  in  the  ever-presence  of  their  all-vitality,  the  immortal 
portion  of  their  author's  being. 

6.  Say  what  we  will  of  the  real  character  of  the  strifes  of  war, 
and  policy,  and  wealth,  the  accents  of  the  singer  are  the  true 
acts  of  the  race.  What  prince,  in  the  secret  places  of  his  dalli- 
ance, uses  such  delights  as  his?  Passing  through  the  life  of  the 
Actual,  with  its  transitory  blisses,  its  deciduous'  hopes,  its  quickly 
waning  fires,  his  interests  dwell  only  in  the  deep  consciousness 
of  the  soul  and  mind,  to  which  belong  undecaying  raptures,  and 
the  tone  of  a  godlike  force.  Within  that  glowing  universe  of 
Sentiment  and  Fancy,  which  he  generates  from  his  own  strenu- 
ous and  teeming  spirit,  he  is  visited  by  immortal  forms,  whose 
motions  torment  the  heart  with  ecstasy — whose  vesture  is  of 
light — whose  society  is  a  fragrance  of  all  the  blossoms  of  Hope. 

7.  To  him  the  True  approaches  in  the  radiant  garments  of  the 
Beautiful ;  the  Good  unvails  to  him  the  princely  splendors  of  her 
native  lineaments,  and  is  seen  to  be  Pleasure.  Ilis  soul  lies 
strewn  upon  its  flowery  desires,  while,  from  the  fountains  of  ideal 
loveliness,  flows  softly  over  him  the  rich,  warm  luxury  of  the 
Fancy's  passion.  Ilis  Joys  are  Powers  ;  and  it  is  the  blessedness 
of  his  condition  that  Triumph  to  him  is  prepared  not  by  toil,  but 
by  indulgence.  Begotten  by  the  creative  might  of  rapture,  and 
beaming  with  the  strength  of  the  delight  of  their  conception,  the 
shapes  of  his  imagination  come  forth  in  splendor,  and  he  fasci- 
nates the  world  with  his  felicities.  H.  B.  Wallace. 

Horace  Binney  Wallace  was  born  in  Pliiiadelphia  on  the  2Cth  of  February, 
1817.  He  passed  the  first  two  years  of  his  collegiate  course  at  the  University  of 
Pennsylvania,  and  the  residue  at  Princeton  College,  where  he  was  graduated  in 
1835.  He  studied  law  with  great  thoroughness,  and  at  the  age  of  twenty-seven, 
prepared  notes,  that  have  been  commended  by  the  highest  legal  authorities,  for 
**  Smith's  Selections  of  Leading  Cases  in  various  Branches  of  the  Law,"  and 
••  White  and  Tudor's  Selection  of  Leading  Cases  in  Equity."  He  also  dc-voted 
much  time  to  scientific  study;  produced  "Stanley,"  a  novel ;  ami  published  a 
number  of  articles  anonymously  in  various  i)eriodicals.  He  sailed  for  Europe  in 
April,  1849,  and  passed  a  year  in  Fjigland,  Germany,  France,  and  Italy.  Ou 
his  return  he  resumed,  with  increased  energy,  his  literary  pursuits.    His  eye* 

*  DecM'  u  oils,  falling  ir  autumn,  as  leaves  ;  not  permaneut. 


TU    Till':    bi'lKlT    (Jh'    I'UETICY.  olo 

sight  became  impaired  in  tlie  spring  of  1852,  owing  to  tlie  incipient  stages  oi  con- 
gestion of  the  brain,  caused  by  undue  mental  exertion.  By  the  advice  of  physi- 
cians, he  embarked  for  England  in  November.  Finding  no  improvement  in  his 
condition,  on  his  arrival,  he  went  to  Paris  for  medical  advice,  where  his  cerebral 
disease  increased,  and  led  to  his  death  suddenly,  on  the  16th  of  December  fol- 
lowing. In  1855  appeared  in  Philadelphia  a  volume  of  his  writings,  entitled 
"  Art,  Scenery,  and  Philosophy  in  Europe."  These  essays  on  the  principles  o^ 
art,  descriptions  of  cathedrals,  traveling  sketches,  and  papers  on  distinguished 
artists,  though  not  designed  for  publication,  and  mostly  in  an  unfinished  state, 
display  great  depth  of  thought,  command  of  language,  knowledge  of  the  history 
and  cesthetic  principles  of  art,  and  a  finely  cultivated  taste.  A  second  volume 
of  his  writings, "  Literary  Criticisms  and  other  Papers,"  appeared  in  1856.  These 
two  works  form  but  a  small  part  of  Mr.  Wallace's  literary  productions. 


177.  To  THE  Spikit  of  Poetry. 

1.  T  EAVE  me  not  yet !     Leave  me  not  cold  and  lonely, 
J-J  Thou  dear  ideal  of  my  pining  heart ! 

Thou  art  the  friend — the  beautiful — the  only, 

Whom  I  would  keep,  though  all  the  world  depart  I 
Thou,  that  dost  vail  the  frailest  flower  with  glory, 

Spirit  of  light  and  loveliness  and  truth  ! 
Thou  that  didst  tell  me  a  sweet,  fairy  story 

Of  the  dim  future,  in  my  wistful  youth ! 
Thou,  who  canst  weave  a  halo  round  the  spirit. 

Through  which  naught  mean  or  evil  dare  intrude. 
Resume  not  yet  the  gift,  which  I  inherit 

From  heaven  and  thee,  that  dearest,  holiest  good ! 
Leave  me  not  now !     Leave  me  not  cold  and  lonely, 

Thou  starry  prophet  of  my  pining  heart  1 
Thou  art  the  friend — the  tenderest,  the  only. 

With  whom,  of  all,  'twould  be  despair  to  part. 

2.  Thou  that  earnest  to  me  in  my  dreaming  childhood, 

Shaping  the  changeful  clouds  to  pageants  rare, 
l^eopling  the  smiling  vale  and  shaded  wildwood 

With  airy  beings,  faint  yet  strangely  fair ; 
Telling  me  all  the  sea-born  breeze  was  saying, 

While  it  went  whispering  through  the  willing  leaves ; 
Bidding  me  listen  to  the  light  rain  playing 

Its  pleasant  tune  about  the  household  eaves ; 
Tuning  the  low,  sweet  ripple  of  the  river. 

Till  its  melodious  murmur  seemed  a  song! 


6-ii  NAIIONAL    FlF'lll    READER. 

A  tender  and  sad  chant,  repeated  ever, 

A  sweet,  impassion'd  plaint  of  love  and  wrong! 

Leave  me  not  yet !     Leave  me  not  cold  and  lonely, 
Thou  star  of  promise  o'er  my  clouded  path ! 

Leave  not  the  life,  that  borrows  from  thee  only 
All  of  delight  and  beauty  that  it  hath  I 

3.  Thou,  that  when  others  knew  not  how  to  love  me, 

Nor  cared  to  fathom  half  my  yearning  soul. 
Didst  wrea&e  thy  flowers  of  light  around,  above  me 

To  woo  and  win  me  from  my  grief's  control; 
By  all  my  dreams,  the  passionate,  the  holy, 

When  thou  hast  sung  love's  lullaby  to  me ; 
By  all  the  childlike  worship,  fond  and  lowly, 

Which  I  have  lavish'd  upon  thine  and  thee , 
By  all  the  lays  my  simple  lute  was  learning. 

To  echo  from  thy  voice — stay  with  me  still ! 
Once  flown — alas '  for  thee  there's  no  returning:  1 

The  charm  will  die  o'er  valley,  wood,  and  hill. 
Tell  me  not  Time,  whose  wing  my  brow  has  shaded, 

Has  wither'd  spring's  sweet  bloom  within  my  heart ; 
Ah,  no !  the  rose  of  love  is  yet  unfaded. 

Though  hope  and  joy,  its  sister  flowers,  depart. 

4.  Well  do  I  know  that  I  have  wrong'd  thine  altar 

With  the  light  offerings  of  an  idler's  mind ; 
And  thus  with  shame,  my  pleading  prayer  I  falter, 

Leave  me  not,  spirit !  deaf,  and  dumb,  and  blind  I 
Deaf  to  the  mystic  harmony  of  nature. 

Blind  to  the  beauty  of  her  stars  and  flowers ; 
Leave  me  not,  heavenly  yet  human  teacher. 

Lonely  and  lost  in  this  cold  world  of  ours ! 
Heaven  knows  I  need  thy  music  and  thy  beauty 

Still  to  beguile  me  on  my  weary  way. 
To  lighten  to  my  soul  the  cares  of  duty. 

And  bless  with  radiiint  dreams  the  darken'd  day ; 
To  charm  my  wild  heart  in  the  worldly  revel, 

Lest  I,  too,  join  the  aimless,  false  and  vain : 
Let  me  not  lower  to  the  soulless  level 

Ofth<^e  whom  now  T  ]Mty  and  disdain! 


DIGNITY    OF   POETRr.  545 

Leave  me  not  yet ! — leave  me  not  cold  and  pining, 
Thou  bird  of  paradise,  whose  plumes  of  light, 

Where'er  they  rested,  left  a  glory  shining ; 
Fly  not  to  heaven,  or  let  me  share  thy  flight ! 

Frances  Osgood. 

Fkances  Sargent  Osgood,  daughter  of  Joseph  Locke,  a  Boston  merchant, 
was  born  in  that  city  about  the  year  1812.  Some  of  her  first  poems  appeared  in 
a  juvenile  3Iisceliany,  conducted  by  Mrs.  L.  M.  Child,  rapidly  followed  by 
others,  which  soon  gave  their  signature, "  Florence,"  a  wide  reputation.  About 
1834  she  was  married  to  S.  S.  Osgood,  a  young  painter  already  distinguished  in 
hio  profession.  They  soon  after  went  to  London,  where  Mr.  Osgood  pursued 
liis  art  of  portrait-painting  with  success ;  and  his  wife's  poetical  compositions  to 
various  periodicals  met  with  equal  favor.  In  1839  a  collection  of  her  poems  was 
published  in  London,  entitled  "  A  Wreath  of  Wild- Flowers  from  New  England." 
About  the  same  period  she  wrote  "The  Happy  Release,  or  the  Triumphs  ot 
Love,"  a  play  in  three  acts.  She  returned  with  Mr.  Osgood  to  Boston  in  1840. 
They  removed  to  New  York  soon  afterward,  where  the  remainder  of  her  life 
was  principally  passed.  Her  poems,  and  prose  tales  and  sketches,  appeared  at 
brief  intervals  in  the  magazines.  In  1841  she  edited  "  The  Poetry  of  Flowers  and 
Flowers  of  Poetry,"  and  in  1847, "  The  Floral  Offering,"  two  illustrated  gift-books. 
Her  poems  were  collected  and  published  in  New  York  in  1846.  She  possessed  an 
unusual  facility  in  writing  verses,  with  a  felicitous  style,  and  w£is  happy  in  the  se- 
lection of  subjects.  Her  rare  gracefulness  and  delicacy,  and  her  unaffected  and 
lively  manners,  won  her  a  large  circle  of  friends     She  died  on  Jhe  12th  of 

May,  1850. 

« 

178.  Dignity  of  Poetey. 

IT  is  a  remarkable  fact  that  in  the  earliest  periods  of  civilization,  in 
the  robust  and  fervid  youth  of  great  nations,  that  Poetry,  that 
divine  melody  of  thought  and  words,  is  always  the  first  language  of 
the  newly  awakened  intellect.  As  civilization  advances,  and  the 
cold  abstractions  of  science  take  the  life-like  creations  of  the 
imagination,  Poetry  withdraws  more  and  more  from  the  domain 
of  the  understanding.  But  though  a  high  state  of  intellectuaJ 
cultivation  more  clearly  defines  the  respective  boundaries  of 
science  and  poetry,  it  is  by  no  means  necessarily  unfavorable  to 
the  latter,  as  many  have  supposed.  Poetry,  more  and  more 
hemmed  in  by  reality,  finds  in  reality  new  and  inexhaustible 
lesources. 

2.  The  vulgar  and  trivial  details'  of  actual  life  are  apt  to  blunt 
our  perceptions  of  its  greatness.  The  bright  dreams  of  youth, 
and  the  thoughtful  sadness  of  maturer  years ;  the  deep  com- 
munings of  the  soul  wifli  nature  and  with  God ;  the  fond  loyalty 
which  cherishes  the  momoi'ies  of  heroes  and  great  benefactors 

X5 


5-16  NATIONAL    FlFrU    READICR. 

of  mankind;  self-sacrificing  patriotism  which  attaches  to  the 
ideii  of  country  an  infinite  import,  and  sacred  obligations ;  rapt 
devotion,  whether  it  recognize  the  Divine  Presence  in  the  Gothic 
Cathedral,  amid  the  forest  aisles,  or  on  the  sounding  sea-shore  ; — 
what  are  all  these  things,  but  the  rising  undulations  of  that  deep- 
est part  of  our  mysterious  nature,  in  which  are  the  fountains  of 
poetry  and  religion  ? 

3.  If  we  imagine  a  rational  creature,  upon  a  level  wifli  the 
highest  of  our  species,  to  reach  the  maturity  of  his  powers  in 
another  state  of  being,  and  then  to  have  all  his  perceptions  and 
sensibilities  suddenly  opened  upon  this  world,  in  any  of  its 
brightest  or  most  fearful  aspects,  what  deep  thoughts,  what  child- 
ish wonder,  love,  or  awe  would  fill  his  whole  soul !  The  poetical 
temperament  preserves  in  a  greater  or  less  degree  this  child-like 
freshness,  which  custom  withers  in  other  men  ;  and  by  mysteri- 
ous afiinities,  it  draws  to  itself  the  poetry  of  life  and  nature  from 
the  alloy  of  commonplace  ingredients.  It  is  unquestionably  the 
greatest  triumph  of  art  to  idealize  the  present ;  for  distance  either 
in  time  or  space  renders  the  materials  of  poetry  more  pliant. 
Through  the  same  mists  that  conceal  from  us  the  vulgar  and 
trivial  details',  the  grander  features  of  the  scene  loom  up  into 
shapes  of  beauty  or  terror. 

4.  Consciously  or  unconsciously,  the  poetical  temperament 
links  every  thing  finite  and  perishable  wifti  the  infinite  and  im- 
perishable, and  our  little  life  here  with  the  boundless  and  ever- 
lasting existence  that  awaits  us.  Whatever  form  poetry  may 
take,  and  whatever  may  be  the  nature  of  the  materials  which  it 
draws  from  the  actual  world,  its  essential  inspiration  is  the  in- 
eradicable desire  of  the  human  soul  for  a  wider,  a  more  beauti- 
ful, a  more  powerful  existence  than  the  present. 

5.  When  the  poet  is  destitute  of  religious  faith,  the  mighty 
cravings  of  his  soul,  and  a  vivid  sense  of  the  frightful  discrepancy 
between  the  aspirations  and  the  supposed  destiny  of  man,  may 
eat  into  his  heart,  tear  asunder  his  whole  nature,  and  fever  it 
into  despair,  madness,  or  suicide.  A  happier  creed  may  overarch 
life  with  the  rainbo'v  of  hope,  and  pour  over  nature  the  light  of 
eternity.  In  either  case,  the  poet,  filled  with  the  ideal,  and  with 
that  infinite  love  and  awe  which  only  the  ideal  can  inspire,  be- 
comes the  unconscious  prophet  of  deeper  and  mightier  truths 


TUE    SriJtil'J'   OK    I'OETKY.  547 

than  the  boasted  deductions  of  science.  Even  in  tscicnce,  no 
great  thing  was  ever  done  by  a  man  who  had  not  a  spice  ot 
poetry  in  him.  As  will  appear  more  fully  in  the  progress  of  our 
inqui'ry,  those  branches  of  art  and  literature  which  strive  to 
embody  the  aspirations  of  man  in  forms  of  ideal  beauty  or  power, 
have  performed  a  very  important  part  in  human  culture. 

G.  Indeed,  the  history  of  Christianity  itself,  including  the  life 
and  death  of  its  Divine  Founder,  the  moral  heroism  of  its  mar- 
tyrs and  aposdes,  and  the  long  warfare  which  it  has  waged 
against  ignorance,  sin,  and  misery,  is  a  mighty  epic,  of  which  God 
is  the  author ;  and  the  refinements  of  chivalry,  the  triumphs  of 
art,  and  the  glories  of  science  are  the  episodes.  Religion  has 
directly  or  indirectly  been  the  source  of  that  poetry  of  action, 
which  has  shed  a  never-dying  glory  over  the  great  and  stirring 
periods  of  modem  history.  It  is  obvious  that  we  use  the  term 
Poetry  in  its  general  sense  of  passionate  recognition  of  all  beauti- 
ful, glorious,  and  sublime  things,  manifested,  not  only  in  verse, 
painting,  sculpture,  architecture,  but  any  thing  which  ennobles 
man,  embellishes  life,  or  refines  society,  provided  it  can  be  em- 
bodied in  sensible  forms,  or  associated  with  images  more  or  less 
distinct.  Not  only  the  greatest  works  of  art,  but  the  finest  traits 
and  noblest  triumphs  of  civilization,  are  manifestations  of  that 
divine  and  perennial  spirit  of  Poetry,  without  which  life  would 
be  a  poor,  des'picable  round  of  sordid  cares  and  animal  grati- 
fications. KOUKSB. 

J.  D.  NouRSE,  Louisville,  Ky.,  author  of  "  Remarks  on  the  Past,  and  its  Lega- 
cies to  American  Society,"  not  only  belongs  to  the  ranks  of  genius,  but  is  en- 
titled to  take  his  place  in  that  higher  order  of  creative  minds,  in  which  the 
capacity  of  great,  sustained,  and  just  thought  coexists  with  the  glow  of  fancy 
and  the  fire  of  passion.  The  above  extract  is  a  fine  illustration  of  the  vivid  ana 
various  sympathy  of  his  mind,  which  combines  the  love  and  power  of  art  with 
the  insight  of  philosophic  judgment,  and  recognizes  the  creative  energy  of  im- 
aginatiou  and  sentiment  as  permanent  and  indispensable  pzurts  of  our  being. 


179.  The  Sperit  of  Poetry. 

THE  world  is  full  of  Poetry — the  air 
Is  living  wifli  its  spirit ;  and  the  waves 
Dance  to  the  music  of  its  melodies. 
And  sparkle  in  its  brightness.     Earth  is  vail'd, 
And  mantled  with  its  beauty  ;  and  the  walls 


548  NATIONAL    FIP-TII    KEADER. 

That  close  the  universe  with  crystal  in. 
Are  eloquent  with  voices  that  proclaim 
The  unseen  glories  of  immensity, 
In  harmonies  too  perfect  and  too  high 
For  aught  but  beings  of  celestial  mold, 
And  speak  to  man,  in  one  eternal  hymn, 
Unfading  beauty  and  unyielding  power. 

2.  The  year  leads  round  the  seasons  in  a  choir 
Forever  charming  and  forever  new. 
Blending  the  grand,  the  beautiful,  the  gay, 
The  mournful,  and  the  tender,  in  one  strain, 
Which  steals  into  the  heart  like  sounds  that  rise 
Far  off,  in  moonlight  everfings,  on  the  shore 
Of  the  wide  ocean,  resting  after  storms ; 
Or  tones  that  wind  around  the  vaulted  roof, 
And  pointed  arches,  and  retiring  aisles 
Of  some  old,  lonely  minster,  where  the  hand, 
Skillful,  and  moved  with  passionate  love  of  art, 
Plays  o'er  the  higher  keys,  and  bears  aloft 
The  peal  of  bursting  thunder,  and  then  calls, 
By  mellow  touches,  from  the  softer  tubes, 
Voices  of  melting  tenderness,  that  blend 
With  pure  and  gentle  musings,  till  the  soul, 
Commingling  with  the  melody,  is  borne, 
Rapt  and  dissolved  in  ecstasy,  to  heaven. 

3.  'Tis  not  the  chime  and  flow  of  words  that  move 
In  measured  file  and  metrical  array ; 
'Tis  not  the  union  of  returning  sounds. 
Nor  all  the  pleasing  artifice  of  rhyme. 
And  quantity,  and  accent,  that  can  give 
This  all-pervading  spirit  to  the  ear. 
Or  blend  it  wifh  the  movings  of  the  soul. 
'Tis  a  mysterious  feeling,  which  combines 
Man  with  the  world  around  him,  in  a  chain 
Woven  of  flowers,  and  dipp'd  in  sweetness,  till 
He  taste  the  high  communion  of  his  thoughts, 
With  all  existences,  in  earth  and  heaven, 
That  meet  him  in  the  charm  of  grace  and  power. 


THE    JJELLS.  541) 

4.  'Tis  not  tlie  noisy  babbler,  wlio  displays 
In  studied  phrase,  and  ornate  epithet. 
And  rounded  period,  poor  and  vapid  thoughts, 
Which  peep  from  out  the  cumbrous  ornaments 
That  overload  their  littleness.     Its  words 
Are  few,  but  deep  and  solemn ;  and  they  break 
Fresh  from  the  fount  of  feeling,  and  are  full 
Of  all  that  passion  which,  on  Carmel,  fired 
The  holy  prophet,  when  his  lips  were  coals. 
His  language  wing'd  with  terror,  as  when  bolts 
Leap  from  the  brooding  tempest,  arm'd  with  wrath, 
Commission'd  to  affright  us,  and  destroy. 

J.  G.  Peecital. 


180.  The  Bells. 

1.  TJEAR  the  sledges  with  the  bells— 
Xl       Silver  bells— 

What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody  foretells  I 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night ! 
While  the  stars  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens,  seem  to  twinkle 

With  a  crystalline  delight ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time. 
In  a  sort  of  Runic*  rhyme. 
To  the  tintinnabulation'  that  so  musically  wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells — 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells. 

2.  Hear  the  mellow  wedding-bells, 

Golden  bells ! 
What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony  foretells  I 
Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight ! 
From  the  molten-golden  nr-tes, 

•  See  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  238.— '■' Runic  (rS'nik),  an  epithet  ap- 
plied  to  the  language  and  letters  of  the  ancient  Goths. — *Tin  tin  nab  ii- 
li'  tion,  the  sounding  or  ringing  of  little  bells. 


650  NATIONAL   FUTU    IIJCADJCK. 

And  all  in  tune, 
What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens,  while  she  gloats 
On  the  moon ! 
Oh,  from  out  the  sounding  cells. 
What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously  wells  I 
How  it  swells ! 
How  it  dwells 
On  the  Future !  how  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels 
To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells— 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bolls,  bells — 
To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the  bells ! 

3.     Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells — 
Brazen  bells ! 
What  a  tale  of  terror,  now,  their  turbulency  tells  ! 
In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright ! 
Too  much  horrified  to  speak. 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek. 
Out  of  tune. 
In  a  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of  the  fire, 
In  a  mad  expostulation  wifli  the  deaf  and  frantic  fire 
Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher, 
With  a  desperate  desire. 
And  a  resolute  endeavor, 
Now — now  to  sit  or  never, 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon. 
Oh,  the  bells,  bells,  bells ! 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 
Of  despair ! 
How  they  clang,  and  clash,  and  roar  ! 
What  a  horror  they  outpour 
On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air ! 
Y6t  the  ear,  it  fully  knows, 
By  the  twanging 


THE   BELLS.  5^)1 

And  the  clanging, 
How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows ; 
Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 
In  the  jangling 
And  the  wrangling. 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells, 
Bv  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger  of  the  bells — 
Of  the  bells— 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells — 
In  the  clamor  and  the  clangor  of  the  bells ! 

4.     Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells — 
Iron  bells ! 
What  a  world  of  solemn  thought  their  monody'  compels  I 
In  the  silence  of  the  night. 
How  we  shiver  wifh  affright 
At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tone  I 
For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  their  throats 

Is  a  groan. 
And  the  people — ah,  the  people — 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple, 

All  alone, 
And  who  tolling,  tolling,  tolling, 

In  that  muffled  monotone. 
Feel  a  glory  in  so  rolling 

On  the  human  heart  a  stone — 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman — 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  human — 

They  are  Ghouls :' 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls ; 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls,  rolls, 
A  paean'  from  the  bells  ! 

*  Mbn'  o  dy,  a  species  of  poem  of  a  mournful  character,  in  which  q 
single  mourner  is  supposed  to  bewail  himself. — 'Ghoul  (g6l),  an  imag- 
inary evil  being  among  Eastern  nations,  which  was  supposed  to  prey  on 
human  bodies. — '  Paj'an,  among  the  ancients,  a  song  of  rejoicing  in  honoi 
of  Apollo ;  hence,  a  song  of  triumph  or  knid  joy. 


652  NATIONAL    FIFfU    KEADEK 

And  his  mSrry  bosom  swells 

With  the  paean  of  the  bells ! 
And  he  dances  and  he  yells  ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time. 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  p?ean  of  the  bells — 
Of  the  bells; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme,  , 

To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells— 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells. 

To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time. 

As  he  knells,  knells,  knells, 
In  a  happy  Runic  rhyme. 

To  the  rolling  of  the  bells — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells— 
To  the  tolling  of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells — 
Bells,  bells,  bells. 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bells. 

Edgar  A.  Por 

Edgar  A.  Poe,  born  in  Baltimore  in  January,  1811,  was  left  an  orphan  by  the 
death  of  his  parents  at  Richmond,  in  1815.  He  was  adopted  by  John  Allen,  a 
wealthy  merchant  of  Virginia,  who  in  the  following  year  took  him  to  England, 
and  placed  him  at  a  scliool  near  London,  from  which,  in  1822,  he  was  removed 
to  the  University  of  Virginia,  where  he  graduated  with  distinction  in  182C 
While  at  the  Military  Academy  at  West  Point,  in  1830,  he  published  his  first 
work,  a  small  volume  of  poems.  He  secured  prizes  for  a  poem  and  a  tale  at 
Baltimore,  in  1833 ;  in  1835  he  was  employed  to  assist  in  editing  "  The  Southern 
Literary  Gazette,"  at  Iliclunond  ;  in  1838  he  removed  to  Philadelphia,  where  he 
was  connected  as  editor  with  Burton's  Magazine  one  year,  and  with  Graham's  a 
year  and  a  half;  and  subsequently,  while  in  that  city,  published  several  volumes 
of  tales,  besides  many  of  his  finest  criticisms,  tales,  and  poems,  in  periodicals.  He 
went  to  New  York  in  1844,  where  he  wrote  several  months  for  the  "  Evening 
Mirror"  In  1845  appeared  his  very  popular  poem  of  "The  Raven,"  and  the 
same  year  lie  aided  in  establishing  the  "  Broadway  Journal,"  of  which  he  was 
afterward  the  sole  editor.  His  wife,  to  whom  he  had  been  married  about  twelve 
years,  died  in  the  spring  of  1849.  In  the  summer  of  that  year  he  returned  to 
Virginia,  where  it  was  supposed  he  had  mastered  his  previous  habits  of  dissipa- 
tion; but  he  died  from  his  excesses,  at  Baltimore,  on  the  seventh  of  October,  at 
the  age  of  thirty-eight  yeai-s.  In  poetry,  as  in  prose,  he  was  eminently  success- 
ful in  the  metaphysical  treatment  of  the  passions.  He  had  a  great  deel  of  imag- 
iuation  and  fancy,  and  his  mind  was  highly  analytical.  His  poems  are  con- 
Btructed  with  wonderful  ingenuity,  and  finished  with  cousununate  art. 


APOSTKoPHf.    TO    THE    8 UN.  !)^)l\ 

181.    Apostrophe  to  the  Sun. 

AUGUST  and  sovereign  sun!  Presence  of  gi'andeur!  Iinae-^ 
of  h'gh  command!  thy  rising  is  a  sacrament  of  stretigtbi 
attd  in  our  souls'  communion  with  thy  rays,  the  eternal  coveiiaiitjs 
•jf  Hope  are  renewed,  and  our  being's  high  sympathy  with  Truth 
ar J  Virtue  is  again  established.  Power  is  born  within  tliv 
palaces  of  Light,  and  influences  of  Pleasure  ride  on  thy  rusiiiug 
beams.  Stern  orb  of  Destiny !  what  issues  attend  upon  thy 
coming !  Thy  motions  are  our  Fate,  and  thy  progress  up  yonder 
blue  arch  of  heaven  shall  be  the  Anguish  or  the  Jov  of  Nations. 

2.  Fierce  firstling  of  Omnipotence!  in  whose  form  Infinity 
grew  palpable  in  splendors,  when  earliest  its  excess  of  energy 
overfl<?wed  into  creation.  Almost  titles  of  divinity  are  thine. 
Thy  changes  are  earth's  ep'ochs :  our  passions  and  our  actions 
wait  on  thee  :  thou  goest  up  in  glory,  leading  the  hosts  of  Being. 
Author  of  order!  token  of  Him  that  made  the  universe!  to 
thee  it  is  given  daily  to  renew  the  wonders  of  the  primal  miracle, 
and  call  the  earth  into  beauty,  from  the  deep  of  Night  and 
Nothingness !  Nay,  even  beyond  the  marvel  of  that  tyoe,  thou 
makest  each  morning  as  many  worlds  as  there  are  minas  within 
it,  for  that  dawning  which  seemed  as  general  as  the  heavens  ia 
as  particular  as  each  human  heart. 

3.  The  mingled  music  of  thy  seven-toned  lyre  rolls  over  the 
earth ;  childhood's  gentle  spirit,  light-slumbering  on  its  violet- 
hcd  of  visions,  catches  the  finest  sound  of  the  rich  symphony — the 
joy-note  of  the  strain — and,  trembling  into  fine  accord  wifli  it, 
wakes  to  its  fairer,  falser  dream  of  real  life  :  the  strong,  full  tone 
of  Duty  sounds,  swells,  and  echoes  through  the  soul  of  manhood  : 
the  laxer  ear  of  age  faintly  hears  the  deep,  harsh  note  of  Custom, 
heavily  vibrating  with  weight  of  memories.  From  thy  golden 
fountains  wells  forth  that  perennial  stream  whence  all  drii  k 
Life  and  Consciousness :  to  different  lips,  how  various  is  the 
tiste! — to  some,  as  sweet  as  praise;  to  some,  more  bitter  than 
the  draughts  of  Death. 

4.  Proud,  melancholy  orb !  lone  in  thy  lordliness!  thou  dwel- 
lest  in  thy  solitudes  of  splendor,  and  pourest  thy  bounty  cease- 
lessly on  all  things,  and  meetest  vifli  no  return.  Sublime  in 
thine  i  nsocial  gicatness  —beyond  the  sympathies  of  those  ou 

U 


/^554  NATIOxVAL    KIKlll     KKAJ)KK. 

wiiom  thy  blessedness  is  lavisJied — siistaiiuHl  by  the  gi  fat  hap- 
piness of  doing  good  without  reward — satisfied,  througli  a  thou- 
sand ages,  with  the  pure  consciousuess  of  duty — thou  art  tin 
type  and  teacher  of  the  life  of  man.  Shine  on,  most  glorious 
oi'b !  we  hail  in  thee  the  elder  brother  of  our  souls,  in  who^c 
grandeur  our  nature  is  ennobled.  H.  B.  Wallace.' 


182.  Apostrophe  to  the  Sun. 

1.  /1ENTER  of  light  and  energy  !  thy  way 

\J  Is  through  the  unknown  void ;  thou  hast  thy  throne, 

Morning,  and  evening,  and  at  noon  of  day, 
Far  in  the  blue,  untendcd  and  alone : 
Ere  the  first  waken'd  airs  of  earth  had  blown, 

On  didst  thou  mai'ch,  triumphant  in  thy  light ; 

Then  didst  thou  send  thy  glance,  which  still  hath  flown 

Wide  through  the  never-ending  worlds  of  night. 
And  y6t  thy  full  orb  burns  with  flash  unquench'd  and  bright. 

2.  Thy  path  is  high  in  heaven  : — we  can  not  gaze 

On  the  intense  of  light  that  girds  thy  car; 
There  is  a  crown  of  glory  in  thy  rays, 

Which  bears  thy  pure  divinity  afar 

To  mingle  with  the  equal  light  of  star; 
For  thou,  so  vast  to  us,  art,  in  the  whole, 

One  of  the  sparks  of  night,  that  fire  the  air; 
And  as  around  thy  cent<;r  planets  roll. 
So  thou,  too,  hast  thy  path  around  the  Central  Soul. 

3.  Thou  lookest  on  the  eai  th,  and  then  it  smiles ; 

Thy  light  is  hid,  and  all  things  droop  and  mourn ; 
Laughs  the  wide  sea  around  her  budding  isles, 

When  through  their  heaven  thy  changing  car  is  borno 

Thou  wheel'st  away  thy  flight, — the  woods  are  shorn 
Of  a!l  their  waving  locks,  and  storms  awake; 

All,  that  was  once  so  beautiful,  is  torn 
By  the  wild  wnnds  which  plow  the  lonely  lake, 
And  in  tlicir  maddening  i  ush  the  crested  mountains  shake. 


*  but  Biognii)hical  Skc^tch,  p.  642. 


Ai*(>STit(>PHK  TO  tup:  scn.  555 

4.  The  earth  lies  biiriecl  ir  a  shroud  of  snow  : 

Life  lingers,  and  wou.d  die,  but  tiiy  return' 
Gives  to  tJieir  gladdenVl  hearts  an  overflow 

Of  all  the  power  that  brooded  in  the  urn' 

Of  their  cliill'd  frames;  and  then  they  proudly  spurn^ 
All  bands  that  would  confine,  and  give  to  air 

Hues,  fragrance,  shapes  of  beauty,  till  they  burn/ 
When,  on  a  dewy  morn,  thou  dartest  there 
Kich  waves  of  gold  to  wreaflie  with  fairer  light  the  fair. 

5.  The  vales  are  thine  ;  and  when  the  touch  of  spring 

Thrills  them,  and  gives  them  gladness,  in  thy  light 
They  glitter,  as  the  glancing  swallow's  wing 

Dashes  the  water  in  his  winding  flight. 

And  leaves  behind  a  wave,  that  crinkles  bright, 
And  widens  outward  to  the  pebbled  shore ; — 

Tlie  vales  are  thine ;  and  when  they  wake  from  nighty 
The  dews  that  bend  the  grass  tips,  twinkling  o'er 
Their  soft  and  oozy  beds,  look  upward  and  adore. 

6.  The  hills  are  thine : — they  catch  thy  newest  beam, 

And  gladden  in  thy  parting,  where  the  wood 
Flames  out  in  every  leaf,  and  drinks  the  stream, 

That  flows  from  out  thy  fullness,  as  a  flood 

Bursts  from  an  unknown  land,  and  rolls  the  food 
Of  nations  in  its  waters  :  so  thy  rays 

Flow  and  give  brighter  tints,  than  ever  bud, 
When  a  clear  sheet  of  ice  reflects  a  blaze 
Of  many  twinkling  gems,  as  every  gloss'd  bough  plays. 

7.  Thine  are  the  mountains,  where  they  purely  lift 

Snows  that  have  never  wasted,  in  a  sky 
Wliicli  hath  no  stain  :  below,  the  storm  may  drift 

Its  darkness,  and  the  thunder-gust  roar  by : 

Aloft  in  thy  eternal  smile  they  lie, 
Dazzling,  but  cold.    Thy  farewell  glance  looks  there; 

And  when  below  thy  hues  of  beauty  die. 
Girt  round  them,  as  a  rosy  belt,  they  bear. 
Into  the  high,  dark  vault,  a  brow  that  still  is  fair. 

'Return  rrfltim').— "Urn  (Sni).— 'Spurn  (sp5m).— •Burn  (b^m) 


556  NATIONAL    FIl'TH    UKADKR. 

8.  The  clouds  are  thine,  and  all  their  magic  hues 
Are  pencill'd  by  thee :  when  thou  bendest  low, 
Or  comest  in  thy  strength,  thy  hand  imbues 
Their  waving  fold  wifli  such  a  perfect  glow 
Of  all  pure  tints,  the  fairy  pictures  throw 
Shame  on  the  proudest  art.     The  tender  stain 

Hung  round  the  verge  of  heaven,  that  as  a  bow 
Girds  the  wide  world ;  and  in  their  blended  chain. 
All  tints,  to  the  deep  gold  that  flashes  in  thy  train ; — 

9  These  are  thy  trophies,  and  thou  bend'st  thy  arch, 

The  sign  of  triumph,  in  a  seven-fold  twine,' 

Where  the  spent  storm  is  hasting  on  its  march, 

And  there  the  glories  of  thy  light  combine, 

And  form  wifli  perfect  curve  a  lifted  line. 

Striding  the  earth  and  air.     Man  looks,  and  tells 

How  Peace  and  Mercy  in  its  beauty  shine, 
And  how  the  heavenly  messenger  impels 
Her  glad  wings  on  the  path,  that  thus  in  e'ther  swells*. 

10.  The  ocean  is  thy  vassal ; — thou  dost  sway 
His  waves  to  thy  dominion,  and  they  go 
Where  thou,  in  heaven,  dost  guide  them  on  their  way, 
Rising  and  falling  in  eternal  flow : 
Thou  lookest  on  the  waters,  and  they  glow ; 
They  take  them  wings,  and  spring  aloft  in  air. 

And  change  to  clouds,  and  then,  dissolving,  throw 
Their  trgasures  back  to  earth,  and,  rushing,  tear 
The  mountain  and  the  vale,  as  proudly  on  they  bear. 

1 1    In  thee,  first  light,  the  bounding  ocean  smiles, 
When  the  quick  winds  uprear  it  in  a  swell, 
That  rolls  in  glittermg  green  around  the  isles. 
Where  ever-springing  fruits  and  blossoms  dwelL 
Oh !  wifh  a  joy  no  gifted  tongue  can  tell, 
I  hOrry  o'er  the  waters  when  the  sail 

Swells  tensely,  and  the  light  keel  glances  well 
Over  the  curling  billow,  and  the  gale 
Comes  6ff  from  spicy  groves  to  tell  its  winning  tale. 


"Hie  seven  i»Hndi»iil  colorh  of  the  nii«l«ow. 


THE    OUKAN.  657 

12.  The  sou]  ii  thino  :— of  old  thou  wert  the  power 
Who  gave  the  poet  life ;  and  1  in  thee 
Feel  iny  heart  gladden  at  the  holy  hour 
When  thou  art  sinking  in  the  silent  sea : 
Or  when  I  climb  the  height,  and  wander  free 
In  thy  meridian  glory  ;  for  the  air 

Sparkles  and  burns  in  thy  intensity ; — 
I  feel  thy  light  within  me,  and  I  share 
hi  the  full  glow  of  soul  thy  spirit  kindles  there. 

J.  G.  Percivai 


183.  The  Ocean. 

1.  IVrO^^  stretch  your  eye  off  shore,  o'er  waters  made 

-L^    To  cleanse  the  air  and  bear  the  world's  great  trade, — 

To  rise,  and  wet  the  mountains  near  the  sun, 

Then  back  into  themselves  in  rivers  run;  * 

Fulfilling  mighty  uses  far  and  wide, 

Through  earth,  in  air,  or  here,  as  ocean-tide. 

2.  Ho !  how  the  giant  lieaves  himself,  and  strains 
And  flings  to  break  his  strong  and  viewless  chains ; 
Foams  in  his  wrath ;  and  at  his  prison  doors — 
Hark!  hear  him! — how  he  beats,  and  tugs,  and  roars 
As  if  he  would  break  forth  again,  and  sweep 

Each  living  thing  within  his  lowest  deep! 

3.  Type  of  the  Infinite!  I  look  away 
Over  thy  billows,  and  I  can  not  stay 

My  thought  upon  a  resting-place,  or  make 
A  shore  beyond  my  vision,  where  they  break ; 
But  on  my  spirit  stretches,  till  it's  pain 
To  thirdv*,  then  rests,  and  then  puts  forth  again. 
Thou  liold'st  me  by  a  spell ;  and  on  thy  beach 
I  feel  all  soul  ;  and  thoughts  unmeasured  reach 
Far  back  beyond  all  date.     And,  oh  !  how  old 
Thou  art  to  me !     For  countless  ages  thou  hast  roU'd. 

4.  Before  an  ear  did  hear  thee,  thou  didst  mourn. 
Prophet  of  sorrows,  o'er  a  race  unborn  ; 


See  Biographical  Sketch,  p-  238. 


SoS  NATIONAL    Finn     KEADKK. 

Waiting,  thon  mighty  minister  of  death. 

Lonely  thy  work,  ere  man  hud  drawn  liis  l)reHth. 

At  last  thon  didst  it  well  I     The  dread  command 

Came,  and  thou  svvept^st  to  death  the  hreatliing  land; 

And  then  once  more  unto  the  silent  heaven 

Thy  lone  and  melancholy  voice  was  given. 

6    And,  though  the  land  is  thr()ng'd  again,  0  Sea! 
Strano-e  sadness  touches  all  that  ffoes  wifli  thee. 
The  small  bird's  plaining  note,  the  wild,  sharp  call, 
Share  thy  own  spirit:  it  is  sadness  all! 
How  dark  and  stern  upon  thy  waves  looks  down 
Yonder  tall  clift' — he  with  the  iron  crown  ! 
And  see  I  those  sable  pines  along  the  steep 
Are  come  to  join  thy  requiem,  gloomy  deep  ! 
Like  stdled  monks,  they  stand  and  chant  the  dirge 
Over  the  dead,  with  thy  low  beating  surge.     U.  H.  Dana. 


184.  The  Ska. 

HA  I  exclaimed  I,  as  I  sprang  upon  the  broad  beach  of  the 
Mediterranean,  and  my  spirit  drank  the  splendid  spectacle 
of  light  and  life  that  spread  before  me — what  a  relief  it  is  to 
escape  from  the  straining  littleness  and  wearisome  affectation  of 
men,  to  the  free,  majestic,  and  inspiring  sea — to  listen  to  his 
stern,  exalted  voice — to  watch  the  untrammeled  sweH  of  these 
pure  waters,  till  the  pulse  of  our  own  heart  beats  in  sympathetic 
nobleness — to  behold  it  heave  in  untiring  energy — changing 
momently  in  form,  changing  never  in  impression ! 

2.  Wh'it  joy  is  it  to  be  sure  that  here  there  is  nothing  coun- 
terfeit— nothing  feigned — nothing  artificial  !  Feeling,  here, 
grapples  wif^t  what  will  never  falter;  imagination  here  may 
spread  its  best-plumed  wings,  but  will  never  outstrip  the  real. 
There  is  here  none  of  that  fear  which  never  leaves  the  handi- 
craft of  art  -  -the  fear  of  penetrating  b(^neafli  the  surface  of 
beauty.  Here,  man  feels  his  majesty  b}'^ feeling  his  nothingness; 
for  the  majesty  of  man  lies  in  his  conceptions,  an<i  the  concej> 
tion  of  self- nothingness  is  the  grandest  we  can  have.     That  small 


*^ee  Biogmphical  Sketch,  p.  261. 


thp:  ska.  559 

and  noxious  passion -mist,  which  we  call  our  soul,  is  dnvcH  with- 
out; and  our  true  soul — the  soul  of  the  universe,  which  we  are 
— entei-s  into  us. 

3.  Tiie  spirit  which  rests  like  a  vapor  visibly  rpon  the  bosom 
of  tJic  waters,  is  a  prcv^efice  and  a  pervading  power;  and  the 
breath  which  it  exhales  is  life,  and  love,  and  splendid  strength 
Nothing  in  nature  renders  back  to  man  the  full  and  instant 
sympathy  which  is  accorded  by  the  mighty  being  who  thus  re 
poses  mildly  in  the  generous  grandeur  of  his  glorious  power. 
We  may  love  the  forms  of  the  trees,  the  colors  of  the  sky,  and 
the  impressive  vastness  of  the  hills ;  but  we  can  never  animate 
them  with  a  soul  of  life,  and  persuade  ourselves  that  they  expe- 
rience the  feeling  which  they  cause. 

4.  But  the  sea,  as  its  countenance  shows  its  myriad  mutations 
wifli  the  variety  and  rapidity  of  the  passions  which  sport  through 
the  breast  of  man,  seems  truly  to  return  the  emotion  which  is 
breathed  toward  him ;  and  fellowship  and  friendship — yea,  and 
personal  affection — are  the  sentiments  which  his  gambols  rouse 
in  the  spectator's  heart.  The  flashing  smiles  that  sparkle  in  his 
eye — are  they  not  his  happy  thoughts?  and  the  ripples  tliat 
flit  their  scouring  dance  over  his  breast — are  they  not  feelings 
of  delioht  that  aoritate  his  frame  ? 

5.  Whether  I  am  amid  mountains  or  on  plains,  there  is  not 
an  hour  in  which  my  existence  is  not  haunted  by  the  remem- 
brance of  the  ocean.  It  abides  beside  me  like  a  thought  of  my 
mind  ; — it  occupies  ray  total  fancy ; — I  ever  seem  to  stand  be- 
fore it.  And  I  know  that  whenever  it  shall  fare  so  ill  with  me 
in  the  world  that  comfort  and  consolation  can  no  longer  be  found 
in  it,  1  have  a  paraclete'  beside  the  shelving  beach  who  will  give 
the  consolation  man  withholds.  The  strong,  thick  wind  which 
comes  from  it  will  be  full  of  life ;  the  petty  tumult  of  care  will 
be  shamed  by  the  gigantic  struggle  of  the  elements,  and  subside 
to  peace.  What  can  be  more  noble  or  more  affecting  than  the 
picture  of  the  old  priest,  who,  wronged  by  the  Grecian  king — 
his  calm  age  fired  with  passion — retires  along  the  shore  of  the 
soul. ding  sea,  and  soothes  his  breast  ere  he  invokes  the  go<^l? 
'  Thoughts  like  inose  are  medicined  best  by  nature." 

'  P&r'  a  clftt*j,  a  comfcrter ;  advocate    hitercessor. 


5<)<)  NATIONAL    FIFTH     KKADKK. 

ti.  I  have  never  stood  bj  the  banks  of  the  oceHii  th^s  snperbl 
fnnged  with  curling  waves,  and  listened  to  that  strange,  ques- 
tionable, echoed  roar,  without  an  emotion  altogether  supernatu- 
ral. That  moan — that  wail  of  the  waters — which  comes  to  the 
ear,  borne  on  the  wind  in  the  stillness  of  evening,  sounds  like 
the  far-otF  complaint  of  another  world,  or  the  groan  of  our  own 
world's  innermost  spirit.  Like  some  of  the  unearthly  music  of 
<icrmany,  when  heard  for  t)ie  first  time,  it  startles  a  feeling  in 
iIkj  secret  mind  which  has  never  before  been  wakened  in  thi-* 
Aotld,  giving  us  assurance  of  another  life,  and  the  strongest 
pi  ouf  that  oui  soul  is  essentially  hnmortal.         H.  B.  Wallace.* 


185.   Apostkophp:  to  the  Ockan. 

1.  rpiIERE  is  a  plgasure  in  the  pathless  woods; 
JL   There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore; 
There  is  society,  where  none  intrudes. 

By  the  deep  sea,  and  music  in  its  roar. 

I  love  not  man  the  less,  but  Nature  more, 
From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I  steal 

From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  before, 
To  mingle  with  the  universe,  and  feel 
What  I  can  ne'er  express,  ygt  can  not  all  conceal. 

2.  Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark-blue  ocean — roll ! 

Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain  : 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin — his  control 

Stops  with  the  shore : — upon  the  watery  plain 

The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own. 

When,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain, 
He  sinks  into  thy  depths,  with  bubbling  groan, 
Without  a  grave,  unknell'd,  unc(5tfin'd,  and  unknown. 

3.  His  stej)s  are  not  upon  thy  paflis — thy  fields 

Are  not  a  spoil  for  him  :  thou  dost  arise 
And  shake  him  from  thee:  the  vile  strength  Le  wields 
For  earth's  tiestruction  thou  dost  all  despise 


*ISee  r>iug  nj;  hica   Sketch,  p.  64? 


APOSTKOl'HK    10    THi:    CMJEAN  6G1 

Spurning  him  from  thy  bosom  to  the  skies, 
And  scnd'sl  him,  shivering  in  thy  playful  spray, 

And  howling  to  his  gods,  where  haply  lies 
His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay, 
And  dashest  him  again  to  earth  : — there  let  him  lay 

4.  The  armaments  which  thunderstrike  the  walls 
Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake, 
And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals ; 
The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 
Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 
Of  lord  of  thee,  and  arbiter  of  war ; — 

These  are  thy  toys,  and,  as  the  snowy  flake, 
They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves,  which  mar 
Alike  the  Armada's'  pride,  or  spoils  of  Trafalgar.' 

6.  Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save  thee: 
Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carthage — what  are  they  f 
Thy  waters  wasted  them  while  they  were  free. 
And  many  a  tyrant  since :  their  shores  obey 
The  stranger,  slave,  or  savage :  their  decay 
Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts.     Not  so  thou : 
Unchangeable  save  to  thy  wild  waves'  play. 
Time  writes  no  wrinkle  on  thine  azure  brow — 
Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  rollest  now, 

6.  Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Almighty's  form 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests ;  in  all  time — 
Calm  or  convulsed,  in  breeze,  or  gale,  or  storm, 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 
Dark-heaving — boundless,  endless,  and  sublime, — 

*  Ar  mk'  da,  a  fleet  of  armed  ships  ;  a  squadron.  The  term  is  usually 
applied  to  the  Spanish  fleet  called  the  Invincible  Armada,  consisting  ol 
130  ships,  intended  to  act  against  England  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Eliza- 
beth, K.  D.  1588. — 'Tr^f  al  g^r',  a  cape  on  the  coast  of  Spain,  rendered 
famous  by  a  naval  battle  fought  there  on  the  19th  of  October,  1805,  in 
which  Lord  Nelson,  with  an  English  fleet  of  27  sail  of  the  line  and  5 
frigates,  gained  a  complete  victory  over  a  French  fleet  of  33  sail  and  7 
frigates.  In  the  heat  of  the  action,  Nelson  was  shot  through  the  back 
by  a  musket  ball.  He  survived  till  the  victory  was  complete  ;  and  his 
last  words  were,  "Thank  God,  I  have  d<me  my  duty." 


562  NA'noNAX.    FIFIU    READER. 

The  image  of  Eternity — the  throne 

Of  the  Invisible ! — even  from  out  thy  slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made  :  each  zone 
Obeys  thee  ; — thou  goest  torth,  dread,  fathomless,  aloue. 

7.  And  1  have  loved  thee,  Ocean  !  and  my  joy 

Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 

Borne,  like  ihy  bubbles,  onward  : — from  a  boy 

I  wanton'd  with  thy  breakers :  they  to  me 

Were  a  delight ;  and  if  the  freshening  sea 

Made  them  a  terror,  'twas  a  pleasing  fear. 

For  I  was,  as  it  were,  a  child  of  thee. 
And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near. 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane — as  I  do  here.     Byuon.> 


186.  Bkutus  and  Titus. 

Brutus.  Well,  Titus,  speak ;  how  is  it  wifh  thee  now  ? 
I  would  attend  a  while  this  mighty  motion. 
Wait  till  the  tempest  were  quite  overblown. 
That  1  might  take  thee  in  the  calm  of  nature. 
With  all  thy  gentler  virtues  brooding  on  thee : 
So  liusird  a  stillness,  as  if  all  the  gcids 
Look'd  down  and  listen'd  to  what  we  were  saying : 
Speak,  then,  and  tell  me,  O  my  best  beloved. 
My  son,  my  Titus !  is  all  well  again  ? 

Tituti.  So  well,  that  saying  how  must  make  it  nothing: 
So  well,  that  I  could  wish  to  die  this  moment. 
For  so  my  heart,  with  poweiful  throbs,  persuades  me 
That  were  indeed  to  make  you  reparation ; 
That  were,  my  lord,  to  thank  you  home — to  die 
And  that,  for  Titus,  too,  would  be  most  happy. 

Brutus.  How's  that,  my  son  ?  would  death  for  thee  be  happ}  « 

Titus,  ^fost  certain,  Sir ;  for  in  my  grave  I  'scape 
All  those  atfronts  which  I,  in  life,  must  look  for; 
\11  those  reproaches  which  the  eyes,  the  fingers, 
And  tongues  of  Uome  will  daily  cast  upon  me, — 
From  whom,  to  a  soul  so  sensible  as  nnne. 


*»<}e  lUotjittpliitail  t>ket«;h.  p.  •:*.Yi 


BKUTU-S    AND    TITUS.  6(jii 

Each  single  scorn  would  be  far  worse  than  dying. 
Besides,  1  'scape  the  stings  of"  my  own  conscience, 
Which  will  forever  rack  me  wifh  remembrance, 
Haunt  me  by  day,  and  torture  me  by  night, 
Casting;  mv  blotted  lionor  in  the  wav, 
Where'er  my  melancholy  thoughts  shall  guide  me. 

Brutus.   But,  is  not  death  a  very  dreadful  thing? 

Titus.  Not  to  a  mind  resolved.     No,  Sir ;  to  me 
It  seems  as  natural  as  to  be  born. 
Groans  and  convulsions,  and  discolor'd  faces, 
Friends  weeping  round  us,  crapes  and  obsequies. 
Make  it  a  dreadful  thing :  the  pomp  of  death 
Is  far  more  terrible  than  death  itself. 
Yes,  Sir ;  I  call  the  powers  of  heaven  to  witness, 
Titus  dares  die,  if  so  you  have  decreed ; 
Nay,  he  shall  die  with  joy  to  honor  Brutus. 

Brutus.  Thou  perfect  glory  of  the  Junian  race! 
Let  me  endear  thee  once  more  to  ray  bosom ; 
Groan  an  eternal  farewell  to  thy  soul ; 
Instead  of  tears,  weep  blood,  if  possible; — 
Blood,  the  heart-blood  of  Brutus,  on  his  child  ! 
For  thou  must  die,  my  Titus — die,  my  son  1 
I  swear,  the  gods  have  doom'd  thee  to  the  grave. 
The  violated  genius  of  thy  country 
Bares  his  sad  head,  and  passes  sentence  on  thee. 
This  morning  sun,  that  lights  thy  sorrows  on 
To  the  tribunal  of  this  horrid  vengeance, 
Shall  never  see  thee  more! 

Titus.  Alas!  my  lord. 

Why  art  thou  moved  thus?      Why  am  I  worth  thy  «!3rr6w? 
Why  should  the  godlike  Brutus  shake  to  doom  me? 
Why  all  these  trappings  for  a  traitor's  hearse  ? 
The  gods  will  have  it  so. 

Brutus.  They  will,  my  Titus ; 

N^or  heaven  nor  earth  can  have  it  otherwise. 
Nay,  Titus,  mark !  the  deeper  that  I  search, 
My  harass'd  soul  returns  the  more  conlirm'd. 
Methinks  I  see  the  very  hand  of  Jove 
Moving  the  dreadful  wheels  of  this  aftair, — 


564  NATIONAL    KIKIH     KKADKK. 

Like  a  nmchine,  thny  whirl  thee  to  thy  fate, 

It  seems  as  if  the  gods  had  preordain'd  it, 

To  fix  the  reeling  spirits  of  the  people, 

And  settle  the  loose  liberty  of  Rome. 

*Tis  fixM ;  oh,  therefore  let  not  fancy  dupe  thee ! 

So  fix'd  thy  death,  that  'tis  not  in  the  power 

Of  gods  or  men  to  save  thee  from  the  ax. 

Titus.  The  ax !     O  Heaven  !  must  I,  then,  fall  so  basely  f 
What !  shall  I  perish  by  the  common  hangman  ? 

Brutus.  If  thou  deny  me  this,  thou  givest  me  nothing. 
Yes,  Titus,  since  the  gods  have  so  decreed 
That  I  must  lose  thee,  I  will  take  the  advantage 
Of  thy  important  fate ;  cement  Rome's  flaws. 
And  heal  her  wounded  freedom  with  thy  blood. 
I  will  ascend  myself  the  sad  tribunal. 
And  sit  upon  my  son — on  thee,  my  Titus ; 
Behold  thee  suflfer  all  the  shame  of  death. 
The  lictor's  lashes,  bleed  before  the  people ; 
Then,  with  thy  hopes  and  all  thy  youth  upon  thee^ 
See  thy  head  taken  by  the  common  ax,     , 
Without  a  groan,  without  one  pitying  tear 
(If  that  the  gods  can  hold  me  to  my  purpose). 
To  make  my  justice  quite  transcend  example. 

Titus.  Scourged  like  a  bondman !     Ha !  a  beaten  slave 
But  I  deserve  it  all :  ydt,  here  I  fail ; 
The  image  of  this  suffering  quite  unmans  me. 
O  Sir !  O  Brutus !  must  I  call  you  father, 
Ygt  have  no  token  of  your  tenderness — 
No  sign  of  mercy  ?     WTiat !  not  bate  me  that  ? 
Can  you  resolve  on  all  the  extremity 
Of  cruel  rigor  ?     To  behold  me,  too — 
To  sit,  unmoved,  and  see  me  whipp'd  to  death — 
Is  this  a  father? 

Ah,  Sir,  why  should  you  make  my  heart  suspect 
That  all  your  late  compassion  was  dissembled  ? 
How  can  I  think  that  you  did  ever  love  me  ? 

Brutus.  Think  that  I  love  thee,  by  my  present  passion. 
By  these  unmanly  tears,  these  earthquakes  here; 
These  sighs,  that  twitch  the  v6ry  strings  of  life; 


THE    RAVEN.  565 

Think  that  no  other  cause  on  earth  could  move  me 
To  tremble  thus,  to  sob,  or  shed  a  tear. 
Nor  shake  my  solid  virtue  from  her  point, 
But  Titus'  death.     Oh,  do  not  call  it  shameful 
That  thus  shall  fix  the  glory  of  the  world. 
I  own  thy  suffering  ought  to  unman  me  thus, 
To  make  me  throw  my  body  on  the  ground. 
To  bellow  like  a  beast,  to  gnaw  the  earth, 
To  tear  my  hair,  to  curse  the  cruel  fates 
That  ibrce  a  father  thus  to  kill  his  child ! 
Titus.  0,  rise,  thou  violated  majesty ! 
I  now  submit  to  all  your  threaten'd  vengeance. 
Come  forth,  ya  executioners  of  justice  ! 
Nay,  all  ye  lictors,  slaves,  and  common  hangmen, 
Come,  strip  me  bare,  unrobe  me  in  his  sight. 
And  lash  me  till  I  bleed !     Whip  me,  like  furies ! 
And,  when  you've  scourged  me  till  I  foam  and  fall, 
For  want  of  spirits,  grovelling  in  the  dust. 
Then  take  my  head,  and  give  it  to  his  justice : 
By  all  the  gods,  I  greedily  resign  it  ?  Lbb. 

Nathaniel.  Lee,  an  English  dramatic  writer,  was  born  in  Hertfordshire  in 
1651.  He  received  a  classical  education  at  Westminster  school,  and  at  Trinity 
College,  Cambridge.  He  tried  the  stage  both  as  an  actor  and  author  ;  was  foui 
years  in  bedlam  from  wild  insanity;  but  recovered  his  reason,  resumed  his 
labors  as  a  dramatist,  and  though  subject  to  fits  of  partial  derangement,  con- 
tinued to  write  till  the  end  of  his  life.  He  was  the  author  of  eleven  tragedies, 
besides  assisting  Dryden  in  the  composition  of  "  OKdipus  "  and  "  The  Duke  ol 
Guise."  His  best  tragedies  are  the  "  Rival  Queens,"  "  Mithridates,"  "  Theo- 
dosius,"  and  "  Lucius  Junius  Brutus."  He  possessed  no  small  degree  of  the  fire  oi 
genius,  excelling  in  tenderness  and  genuine  passion  ,  but  his  style  often  degen- 
erates into  bombast  and  extravagant  phrensy,  in  part  caused  by  his  mental 
malady.    He  died  in  London  on  the  6th  of  April,  16a2. 


187.  The  Eaven. 

I. 

ONCE  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  ponderM,  weak  and 
weary, 
Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume  of  forgotten  lore, — 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there  came  a  tapping, 
As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping  at  my  chainber-^ioor. 


606  NATIONAL   FirrH    kp:ai)kr. 

"'Tis  some  visitor,"  I  mutter'd,  "tapping  at  my  chaml>er-<:loor — 
Only  tliis,  and  notliing*  moro." 

II. 
All,  distinctly  I  remember,  it  was  in  the  bleak  December, 
And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought  its  ghost  upon  the  floor. 
Eagerly  I  wishM  the  morrow :  vainly  I  had  sought  to  borrow 
From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow — soirow  for  the  lost  Lenon 
For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore- 
Nameless  here  foreveimore. 

III. 
And  the  silken,  sad,  uncertain  rustling  of  each  purple  curtain, 
Thrill'd  me — fillVl  me  with  fantastic  terrors  never  felt  before ; 
So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating  of  my  heart,  I  stood  repeating, 
"  'Tis  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber-door, — 
Some  late  visitor  entreating  entiance  at  ray  chamber-door  ; 
That  it  is,  and  nothing  more." 

IV. 

Presently  m)'^  soul  grew  stronger :  hesitating  then  no  longer, 
"Sir,"  said  1,  "or  Madam,  truly  your  forgiveness  I  implore; 
But  the  fact  is,  I  was  napping,  and  so  gently  you  came  rapping, 
And  so  taintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping  at  my  chamber-door, 
That  1  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you" — here  I  open'd  wide  the  door: 
Darkness  there,  and  nothing  more. 

V. 

Deep  into  that  darkness  peering,  long  I  stood  there,  wondering, 

fearing. 
Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortals  ever  dared  to  dream 

-  before ; 
But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  the  stillness  gave  no  token. 
And    the   only    word    there   spoken  was  the  whisperM    wor.i 

"Lenore!" 
This/whisper'd,andan  echomurmur'd  back  the  word,  "Lenore  I' 
Merely  this,  and  nothirg  more. 

VI. 

Back  into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my  soul  within  me  burning, 
Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping,  something  louder  than  before. 


THE    RAVEN.  667 

*  Surely,*  said  I,  "  surely  that  is  something  at  ray  window-lattice; 
Let  me  see  theu  what  thereat  is,  and  this  mystery  explore, — 
Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment,  and  this  mystery  explore ; — 
'Tis  the  wind,  and  nothing  more." 

VII. 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter,  when,  wifli  many  a  flirt  and  flutter, 
Li  there  steppM  a  stately  raven  of  the  saintly  days  of  y5re. 
Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he ;  not  a  minute  stopp'd  orstayM  Ik 
But,  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perch'd  above  my  chamber-door, — 
Perch'd  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas,  just  above  my  chamber-door — 
Perch'd,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

VIII. 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into  smiling. 
By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance  it  wore, 
"  Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,  thou,"  I  said,  "  art  sure 

no  craven ; 
Ghastly,  grim,  and  ancient  raven,  wandering  from  the  nightly 

shore, 
Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  Night's  Plutonian  shore  ?" 
Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore  !" 

IX. 

Much  [  marvel'd  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  discourse  so  plainly, 
Though  its  answer  little  meaning — little  relevancy  bore ; 
For  we  can  not  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human  being 
Ever  yet  was  bless'd  with  seeing  bird  above  his  chamber-<loor — 
Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust  above  his  chamber-door, 
With  such  name  as  "  Nevermore !" 

X. 

But  the  raven  sitting  lonely  on  the  placid  bust,  spoke  only 
That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one  word  he  did  outpour. 
Nothinij  further  then  he  utterVl — not  a  feather  then  he  flutter'd- 
Till  1  scarcely  more  than  mutter'd,  "  Other  friends  have  flowii 

before — 
On  the  morrow  Ae.will  leave  me,  as  my  hopes  have  flown  before." 
Then  the  bird  said,  "  Nevermore  !" 

XI. 

Startled  at  the  stillness,  broken  by  reply  so  aptly  spoken, 

**  r>oubtlebs,"  said  I,  "  what  it  utters  ig  its  onlv  stock  and  store. 


568  NATIONAL    FIPTH     KKADKK. 

Caught  from  some  unhappy  muster,  whom  unmerciful  disaster 
Follow'd  fast  and  follow'd  faster,  till  his  songs  one  burden  bore, — 
Till  the  dirges  of  his  hope  that  melancholy  burden  bore, 
Of — "  Never — nevermore !" 

XII. 

But  the    aven  still  beguiling  all  my  sad  soul  into  smiling, 
Straight  I  wheel'd  a  cushioned  seat  in  front  of  biru,  and  bust, 

and  door, 
Then,  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I  betook  myself  to  linking 
Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  ominous  bird  of  yore — 
What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt,  and  ominous  bird  of  yore 
Meant  in  croaking  "  Nevermore !" 

XIII. 

This  T  sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no  syllable  expressing 
To  the  fowl,  whose  fiery  eyes  now  burn'd  into  my  bosom's  core; 
This  and  more  I  sat  divining,  wifli  my  head  at  ease  reclining 
On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining  that  the  lamp-light  gloated  o'er, 
But  whose  velvet  violet  lining,  with  the  lamp-light  gloating  o'er, 
She  shall  press — ah !  nevermore  I 

XIV. 

Then  methought  the  air  grew  denser,  perfumed  from  an  unseen 

censer 
Swung  by  seraphim,  whose  foot-falls  tinkled  on  the  tufted  floor. 
"  Wretch,"  I  cried,  "  thy  God  hath  lent  thee — by  these  angels 

he  hath  sent  thee 
Respite — respite  and  nepenthe'  from  thy  memories  of  Lcnore  ! 
Quf^,  oh,  qualSf  this  kind  iiepenthe,  and  forgSt  this  lost  Lenore  I" 
Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore  I" 

XV. 

"  Piophet !"  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil ! — prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil  I 
Whether  tempter  sent,  or  whether  tempest  tSss'd  thee  here  ashore. 
Desolate,  yet  all  undaunted,  on  this  desert  land  enchanted — 
On  this  home  by  Il5rror  haunted — tell  me  truly,  I  implore — 
Is  there — is  there  balm  in  Gilcad  ? — tell  me — tell  me,  I  implore  T* 
Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore !" 


'  Ne  p&n'  the,  u  dnig  or  medicine  that  relieves  i»ain  mvX  exhilsirates. 


THK  SARAUKN  BUOTHKK8.  560 

XVI. 

**  Prophet!"  said  1,  "  thing  of  evil ! — prophet  still,  if  bird  or  d(5vil! 
By  that  heaven  that  bends  above  us — by  that  God  we  both  adore, 
Tell  this  soul,  with  sorrow  laden,  if,  within  the  distant  Aidenn,' 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden,  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore ; 
Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden,  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore !" 
Quoth  the  raven,  "Nevermore!" 

XVII. 

"Be  that  word  our  sign   of  parting,  bird  or  fiend!"  I  shriekM, 

upstarting — 
"  G6t  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the  Night's  Plutonian  shore ! 
Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie  thy  soul  hath  spoken  f 
Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken  ! — quit  the  bust  above  my  door ! 
Take  thy  b6ak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form  from  off 

my  door !" 

Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore  1" 

XVIII. 

And  the  raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is  sitting 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas,  just  above  my  chamber-door ; 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that  is  dreaming, 
And  the  lamp-light  o'er  him  streaming  throws  his  shadow  on  the 

floor ; 
And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating  on  the  floor 
Shall  be  lifted — nevermore  !  Edgar  A.  Pok." 


188.  The  Saracen  Brothers. 

Attendant.  A  stranger  craves  admittance  to  your  highness. 

Saladin.  Whence  comes  he  ? 

Atten.  That  I  know  not. 
Enveloped  with  a  vestment  of  strange  form, 
His  countenance  is  hidden ;  but  his  step, 
His  lofty  port,  his  voice  in  vain  disguised, 
Proclaim — if  that  I  dare  pronounce  it — 

Sal.  Whom  ? 


'  Aidenn.  from  Aidds,  a  name  preferred  by  the  poets  for  Hades.  In 
Homer,  AiVlfes  is  invariably  the  name  of  the  god  ;  but  in  latter  times  it 
was  tranif;f(^rred  to  his  house,  his  abode,  or  kingdom,  so  that  it  becaiae 
*  name  for  the  nether  W(;rW.— '  See  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  552 


570  NATIONAL    FTFIH    READER. 

Atten.  Thy  royal  brother! 

Sal.  Bring  him  instantly.     [£xit  Attenuant, 

Sovfy  with  his  specious,  smooth,  persuasive  tongue, 
Frauo'ht  with  some  wily  subterfuge,  he  thinks 
To  dissipate  my  anger,     lie  shall  die. 

[Enter  Attendant  and  Malek  Adiiel. 
Leave  us  together,    [Exit  Attendant.]    [^siWe.]    1  should  kiu» 

that  form. 
Now  summon  all  thy  fortitude,  my  soul, 
Nor,  though  thy  blood  cry  for  hiui,  spare  the  guilty! 
[Aloud.]     Well,  stranger,  speak ;  but  first  unvail  thyself 
For  Saladin'  must  view  the  form  that  fronts  him. 

Malek  AdheL  Behold  it,  then  ! 

Sal.  1  see  a  traitor's  visage. 

Mai.  Ad.  A  brother's  ! 

Sal.  No ! 

Saladin  owns  no  kindred  with  a  villain. 

Mai.  Ad.  0,  patience,  Heaven.     Had  any  tongue  but  thine 
Utter'd  that  word,  it  ne'er  should  speak  another. 

Sal.  And  why  not  now  ?     Can  this  heart  be  more  pierced 
By  Malek  Adhcl's  sword  than  by  his  deeds  ? 
Oh,  thou  hast  made  a  desert  of  tliis  bosom ! 
For  open  candor,  planted  sly  disguise ; 
For  confidence,  suspicion  ;  and  the  glow 
Of  generous  friendship,  tenderness,  and  love, 
Forever  banish'd  !     Whither  can  I  turn, 
When  he  by  blood,  by  gratitude,  by  faith, 
By  every  tie,  bound  to  support,  forsakes  me  ? 
Who,  who  can  stand,  when  Malek  Adhel  falls? 
Henceforth  I  turn  me  from  the  sweets  of  love : 
The  smiles  of  friendship,  and  this  glorious  world, 

*  Saladin,  the  hero  of  this  dramatic  piece,  was  born  in  1137.  lie  be- 
came Saltan  of  Egypt  and  Syria  in  11(58,  from  which  period  he  is  aoied 
for  Ids  wars  with  the  Chrii^tian  crusaders.  He  died  at  Damascus  in  llS*8, 
leaving  a  bn^ther  and  seventeen  sons  to  share  his  power  and  conquests. 
Christians  and  Saracens  have»wed  with  each  other  in  writing  panegyr- 
ics on  the  justice,  valor,  gene)4>8ity,  and  political  wisdom  of  this  prince, 
who  possessed  the  art,  not  simply  of  acquiring  power,  but  of  devoting  i* 
to  the  good  of  hifi  subjects 


THE  SARACEN  BROTHERS.  571 

In  which  all  find  some  heart  to  rest  upon, 
Shall  be  to  Saladin  a  cheerless  void, — 
His  brother  has  betray'd  him  ! 

Mai.  Ad.  Thou  art  softenM ; 

I  am  thy  brother,  then ;  but  late  thou  saidst 

My  tongue  can  never  utter  the  base  title  1 

aSW.  Was  it  traitor?     True! 
Thou  hast  betray'd  me  in  my  fondest  hopes ! 
Villain  ?     'Tis  just ;  the  title  is  appropriate ! 
Dissembler?     'Tis  not  written  in  thy  face; 
No,  nor  imprinted  on  that  specious  brow ; 
But  on  this  breaking  heart  the  name  is  stamp'd, 
Forever  stampVl,  with  that  of  Malek  Adhel ! 
Thiiik'st  thou  I'm  soften'd  ?     By  Mohammed  !'  these  hands 
Should  crush  these  aching  eyeballs,  ere  a  tear 
Fall  from  them  at  thy  fate!     O  monster,  monster! 
The  brute  that  tears  the  infant  from  its  nurse 
Is  excellent  to  thee,  for  in  his  form 
The  impulse  of  his  nature  may  be  read ; 
But  thou,  so  beautiful,  so  proud,  so  noble. 
Oh,  what  a  wretch  art  thou  !     Oh  !  can  a  term 
In  all  the  vni'ious  tongues  of  man  be  found 
To  match  thy  infamy  ? 

Mai.  Ad.  Go  on  !  go  on ! 

'Tis  but  a  little  while  to  hear  thee,  Saladin ; 
And,  bursting  at  thy  feet,  this  heart  will  prove 
Its  penitence,  at  least. 

Sal.  That  were  an  end 

Too  noble  for  a  traitor!     The  bowstring  is 
A  more  ap})ro[)riate  finish  !     Thou  shalt  die ! 

Mai.  Ad.  And  death  were  welcome  at  another's  mandate ! 
What,  what  have  I  to  live  for?     Be  it  so, 
If  that,  in  all  thy  armies,  can  be  fovmd 
An  executing  hand. 

Sal.  Oh,  doubt  it  not ! 

They're  eager  for  the  office.     Perfidy, 
So  black  as  thine,  effaces  from  their  minds 

'  MoiiAMMKD,  see  p.  394,  note  2 


572  NATION AJ.    FIFTH    KKADKR. 

All  mcniory  of  thy  former  excellence. 

Mai.  Ad.  Defer  not  then  their  wishes.     Saladin, 
If  e'er  this  form  was  joyful  to  thy  sight, 
This  voice  seem'cl  grateful  to  thine  ear,  acceue 
To  my  last  prayer : — Oh,  lengthen  not  this  scene, 
To  which  tht  agonies  of  death  were  pleasing ! 
f -et  me  die  speedily  ! 

Sal.  This  very  hour ! 

[  Aside^  For,  oh !  the  more  I  look  upon  that  face 
The  more  I  hear  the  accents  of  that  voice, 
Tlie  monarch  softens,  and  the  judge  is  lost 
In  all  the  brother's  weakness;  yet  such  guilt, — 
Such  vile  ingratitude, — it  calls  for  vengeance ; 
And  vengeance  it  shall  have !     What,  ho !  who  waits  tliere  ? 

[Enter  Attendant. 

Atten.  Did  your  highness  call  ? 

Sal.  Assemble  quickly 

My  forces  in  the  court.     Tell  them  they  come 
To  view  the  death  of  yonder  bosom-traitor. 
And,  bid  them  mark,  that  he  who  will  not  spare 
His  brother  when  he  errs,  expects  obedience, 
Silent  obedience,  from  his  followers.  [Exit  Attendant 


189.  The  Saracen  Brothers — concluded. 

Mai.  Ad.  Now,  Saladin, 
The  word  is  given,  I  have  nothing  more 
To  fear  from  thee,  my  brother.     I  am  not 
About  to  crave  a  miserable  life. 
Without  thy  love,  thy  honor,  thy  esteem. 
Life  were  a  burden  to  me.     Think  not,  either, 
The  justice  of  thy  sentence  I  would  question. 
But  one  request  now  trembles  on  my  tongue, — 
One  wish  still  clinging  round  the  heart,  which  soon 
Not  even  that  shall  torture, — will  it,  then, 
Think'st  thou,  thy  slumbers  render  quieter, 
Thy  waking  thoughts  more  pleasing,  to  reflect, 
That  when  thy  voice  had  df>om'd  a  brother's  death, 


THK    SAJiACKN    BROTH KK8.  673 

The  last  request  which  e'er  was  his  to  utter, 
Thy  harshness  made  him  carry  to  the  grave  ? 

Sal.  Speak,  then  ;  but  ask  thyself  if  thou  hast  reason 
To  look  for»much  indulgence  here. 

Mai.  Ad.  I  have  not ! 

Yet  will  I  ask  for  it.     We  part  forevoT ; 
This  is  our  last  farewell ;  the  king  is  satisfied ; 
The  judge  has  spoke  the  irrev'ocable  sentence. 
None  sees,  none  hears,  save  that  omniscient  Power, 
Which,  trust  me,  will  not  frown  to  look  upon 
Two  brothers  part  like  such.     When,  in  the  face 
Of  forces  once  my  own,  I'm  led  to  death. 
Then  be  thine  eye  unmoisten'd ;  let  thy  voice 
Then  speak  my  doom  untrembling ;  then 
Unmoved,  behold  this  stiflf  and  blacken'd  corse ; 
But  now  I  ask — nay,  turn  not,  Saladin ! — 
I  ask  one  single  pressure  of  thy  hand ; 
From  that  stern  eye  one  solitary  tear — 
Oh,  torturing  recollection ! — one  kind  word 
From  the  loved  tongue  which  once  breathed  naught  but  kindness. 
Still  silent?     Brother!  friend  !  beloved  companion 
Of  all  my  youthful  sports ! — are  they  forgotten  ? 
Strike  me  with  deafness,  make  me  blind,  O  Heaven ! 
Let  me  not  see  this  unforgiving  man 
Smile  at  my  agonies !  nor  hear  that  voice 
Pronounce  my  doom,  which  would  not  say  one  word, 
One  little  word,  whose  cherish'd  memory 
Would  soothe  the  struggles  of  departing  life ! 
Yet,  yet  thou  wilt !     Oh,  turn  thee,  Saladin ! 
Look  on  my  face — thou  canst  not  spurn  me  then ; 
Look  on  the  once-loved  face  of  Malek  A.dhel 
For  the  last  time,  and  call  him — 

Sal.  [seizing  his  hand].     Brother !  brother ! 

Mai.  Ad.  \breaJcing  away].  Now  call  thy  followers. 
Death  has  not  now  a  single  pang  in  store.     Proceed  I  Vm  ready, 

Sal.  Oh,  art  thou  ready  to  forgive,  my  brother? 
To  pardon  him  who  found  one  single  error, 
One  little  failing,  mid  a  sp'cndid  throng 
Of  glorious  qualities-  — 


674  NATIONAL    HKIH     KKADER. 

Mai.  Ad.  oil,  stay  thee,  Salndin  ! 
I  (lid  not  Hsk  for  life.     1  only  wish'd 
To  caiTV  thy  foi-o-iveness  to  the  grave. 
No,  Ejnperor,  the  loss  of  Cesarea 
Cries  londly  for  the  blood  of  Malek  Adhel. 
Thy  soldiers,  too,  demand  that  he  who  lost 
AMiat  cost  them  many  a  weary  hour  to  gain, 
Should  expiate  his  offences  wifli  his  life. 
Lo !  even  now  they  crowd  to  view  my  death, 
Thy  just  impartiality.     I  go ! 
Pleased  by  my  fate  to  add  one  other  leaf 
To  thy  proud  wreath  of  glory.     \^(Toing, 

Sal.  Thou  shalt  not.      \^Enter  Attendant, 

Atten.  My  lord,  the  troops  assembled  by  your  order 
Tumultuous  throng  the  courts.     The  prince's  death 
Not  one  of  them  but  vows  he  will  not  suffer. 
The  mutes  have  fled  ;  the  very  guards  rebel. 
Nor  think  I,  m  this  city's  spacious  round. 
Can  e'er  be  found  a  hand  to  do  the  office. 

Mai.  Ad.  0  faithful  friends!     [To  Atten,:]     Thine  shalt. 

Atten.  Mine? — Never! — 
The  other  first  shall  lop  it  from  the  body. 

Sal.  They  teach  the  Emperor  his  duty  well. 
Tell  them  he  thanks  them  for  it.     Tell  them,  too, 
That  ere  their  opposition  reach'd  our  ears, 
Saladin  had  forgiven  Malek  Adhel. 

Atten.  O  joyful  news! 
I  haste  to  gladden  many  a  gallant  heart. 
And  dry  the  tear  on  many  a  hardy  cheek. 
Unused  to  such  a  visitor.     [Exit. 

Sal.  These  men,  the  meanest  in  society. 
The  outcasts  of  the  earth, — by  war,  by  nature 
Ilarden'd,  and  render'd  callous, — these,  who  claim 
No  kindred  wifh  thee, — who  have  never  heard 
The  accents  of  affection  from  thy  lips, — 
Oh,  these  can  cast  aside  their  vow'd  allegiance, 
Throw  off  their  long  obedience,  risk  their  lives, 
To  save  thee  from  destruction  !     While  I, 
T,  who  can  not,  in  all  my  memory, 


Mii;i\)N.  675 

Call  back  one  danger  which  thou  hast  not  shared, 

One  da}  of  grief,  one  night  of  revelry, 

Which  thy  resistless  kindness  hath  not  soothed, 

Or  thy  gay  smile  and  converse  render'd  sweeter, — 

I,  who  have  thrice  in  the  ensanguined  field, 

When  death  seem'd  certain,  only  utter'd  "Brotiiek!" 

And  seen  that  form  like  lightning  rush  between 

Saiadin  and  his  foes,  and  that  brave  breast 

Dauntless  exposed  to  many  a  furious  blow 

Intended  for  my  ov^n, — I  could  forget 

That  'twas  to  thee  I  owed  the  very  breath 

Which  sentenced  thee  to  perish !     Oh,  'tis  shamefal ! 

Thou  canst  not  pardon  me ! 

Mai.  Ad.  By  these  tears,  I  can ! 
O  brother !  from  this  very  hour,  a  new, 
A  glorious  life  commences!     I  am  all  thine! 
Again  the  day  of  gladness  or  of  anguish 
Shall  Malek  Adhel  share ;  and  6ft  again 
May  this  s?z;5rd  fence  thee  in  the  bloody  field. 
Henceforth,  Saiadin, 
My  heart,  my  soul,  my  sword,  are  thine  forever. 

New  Monthly  Maqaeine. 


190.  Milton. 


¥E  venture  to  say,  paradoxical'  as  the  remark  may  appear, 
that  no  poet  has  ever  had  to  struggle  wifli  more  unfavora- 
ble circumstances  than  Milton.  He  doubted,  as  he  has  himself 
owned,  whether  he  had  not  been  born  "  an  age  too  late."  For 
this  notion  Johnson'^  has  thought  fit  to  make  him  the  butt  of  his 
clumsy  ridicule.  The  poet,  we  believe,  understood  the  nature  of 
his  art  better  than  the  critic.  He  knew  that  his  poetical  genius 
derived  no  advantage  from  the  civilization  which  surrounded 
iini.  or  from  the  learning  which  he  had  acquired  ;  and  he  looked 
■fick  with  something  like  regret  to  the  ruder  age  of  simple  words 
iud  vivid  impressions. 

2.  We  think  that  as  civilization  advances,  poetry  almost  nec- 

'  Par  a  d6x'  i  cal,  seemingly  absurd  ;  inclined  to  tenets  contrary  to  re 
ceived  opinions. — '  Johnson,  see  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  230. 


576  NATIONAL    FIFIH    KKADKR. 

essarily  declines.  Therefore,  though  we  admire  those  great 
works  of  imagination  which  have  appeared  in  dark  ages,  we  do 
not  admire  them  the  more  because  they  have  ap;)eared  in  dark 
ages.  On  the  contrary,  we  hold  that  the  most  wonderful  and 
splendid  proof  of  genius  is  a  great  poem  produced  in  a  civilized 
age.  We  can  not  understand  why  those  who  believe  in  that 
most  orthodox  article  of  literary  faith,  that  the  earliest  poets  are 
generally  the  best,  should  wonder  at  the  rule  as  if  it  were  the 
exception.  Surely  the  uniformity  of  the  phenomenon  indicates 
a  corresponding  uniformity  in  the  cause. 

3.  He  who,  in  an  enlightened  and  literary  society,  aspires  to 
be  a  great  poet,  must  first  become  a  Httle  child.  He  must  take 
to  pieces  the  whole  web  of  his  mind.  He  must  unlearn  much 
of  that  knowledge  which  has,  perhaps,  constituted  hitherto  his 
chief  title  of  superiority.  His  very  talents  will  be  a  hinderance 
to  him.  His  difficulties  will  be  proportioned  to  his  proficiency 
in  the  pursuits  which  are  fashionable  among  his  contemporaries ; 
and  that  proficiency  will  in  general  be  proportioned  to  the  vigor 
and  activity  of  his  mind.  And  it  is  well,  if,  after  all  his  sacri- 
fices and  exertions,  his  works  do  not  resemble  a  lisping  man  or 
a  modern  ruin.  We  have  seen,  in  our  own  time,  great  talents, 
intense  labor,  and  long  meditation  employed  in  this  struggle 
against  the  spirit  of  the  age  ;  and  employed,  we  will  not  say 
absolutely  in  vain,  but  with  dubious  success  and  feeble  applause 

4.  If  these  reasonings  be  just,  no  poet  has  ever  triumphec 
over  greater  difficulties  than  Milton.  He  received  a  learned 
education.  He  was  a  profound  and  elegant  classical  scholar :  he 
had  studied  all  the  mysteries  of  Rabbinical'  literature :  he  wai 
intimately  acquainted  wifli  every  language  of  modern  Europe, 
from  which  either  pleasure  or  information  was  then  to  be  de- 
rived. He  was,  perhaps,  the  only  great  poet  of  later  times  w}».o 
has  been  distinguished  by  the  excellence  of  his  Latin  verse. 

5.  It  is  not  our  intention  to  attempt  any  thing  like  a  complete 
examination  of  the  poetry  of  Milton.  The  public  has  long  been 
agreed  as  to  the  merit  of  the  most  remarkable  passages,  the  in- 
com 'parable  harmony  of  the  numbers,  and  the  excellence  of  that 


'Rab  bin' ioal,  pertaining  to  K^ibbins,  or  Jewish  doctors,  and  theii 
tenets. 


MILTON.  577 

style  which  no  rival  has  been  able  to  eqnal,  aiid  no  parodist  to 
degrade ;  whicii  displays  in  their  highest  perfection  the  iuioni-iiic' 
powers  of  the  English  tongue,  and  to  which  every  ancient  an*l 
every  modern  language  has  contributed  something  of  grace,  of 
energy,  or  of  music.  In  the  vast  field  of  criticism  in  which  vse 
are  entering,  innumerable  reapers  have  already  put  their  sickles. 
Yet  the  harvest  is  so  abundant  that  the  negligent  search  ol  a 
straggling  gleaner  may  be  rewarded  wifh  a  sheaf. 

6.  The  most  striking  characteristic  of  the  poetry  of  Milton  is 
the  extreme  remoteness  of  the  associations  by  means  of  whicli  it 
acts  on  the  reader.  Its  eftect  is  produced,  not  so  much  by  what 
it  expresses  as  by  what  it  suggests ;  not  so  much  by  the  ideas 
which  it  directly  conveys,  as  by  other  ideas  which  are  connected 
wifli  them.  He  electrifies  the  mind  through  conductors.  The 
most  unimaginative  man  must  understand  the  "  Iliad."  Homer* 
gives  him  no  choice,  and  requires  from  him  no  exertion ;  but 
takes  the  whole  upon  himself,  and  sets  his  images  in  so  clear  a 
light  that  it  is  impossible  to  be  blind  to  them.  Tlie  works  of 
Milton  can  not  be  comprehended  or  enjoyed,  unless  the  mind  of 
*he  reader  cooperate  with  that  of  the  writer.  He  does  not  paint 
a  finished  picture,  or  play  for  a  mere  passive  listener.  He 
sketches,  and  leaves  others  to  fill  up  the  outline.  He  strikes  the 
key-note,  and  expects  his  hearer  to  make  out  the  melody. 

7.  We  often  hear  of  the  magical  influence  of  poetry.  The 
expression  in  general  means  nothing ;  but,  applied  to  the  writ- 
ings of  Milton,  it  is  most  appropriate.  His  poetry  acts  like  an 
incantation.  Its  merit  lies  less  in  its  obvious  meaning  than  in 
its  occult*  power.  There  would  seem,  at  first  sight,  to  be  no 
more  in  his  words  than  in  other  words.  But  they  are  words  of 
enchantment ;  no  sooner  are  they  pronounced  than  the  past  is 
present,  and  the  distant  near.  New  forms  of  beauty  stait  al 
once  into  existence,  and  all  the  burial-places  of  the  memory  give 
up  their  dead.  Change  the  structure  of  the  sentence,  substitute 
one  synonym  for  another,  and  the  whole  effect  is  destroyed. 
The  spell  loses  its  power ;  and  he  who  should  then  hope  to  con- 

'  Pir'  o  dist,  one  who  makes  a  burlesque  alteration,  by  which  poetry 
written  on  one  subject  is  applied  to  another.—' Id  i  omit' ic,  peculiar  to 
a  language — •  Homkr,  see  p.  215,  note  1.— *0c c&lt'.  invisible;  con 
cet^)e<l  from  the  eye  or  und»^r»tandiiig. 

26 


578  NAT1()NAL    FIFrU     KKADIUi. 

jure  with  it  would  find  himself  as  much  mistaken  as  Cassim  in 
the  Arabian  talc,  when  he  sto<xl  crying  "Open  Wheat,"  "Open 
]3arley,"  to  the  door  which  obeyed  no  sound  but  "  Open  Sesa- 
me !'"  The  miserable  failure  of  Dryden,^  in  his  attempt  to  re- 
wi-ite  some  parts  of  the  "Paradise  Lost,"  is  a  remarkable  in- 
staiice  of  this. 


191.  Milton — concluded. 
niHE  character  of  Milton  was  peculiarly  distinguished  by  lofti- 
-Jl  ness  of  thought.  He  had  survived  his  health  and  his  sighti 
the  comforts  of  his  home  and  the  prosperity  of  his  party.  Ol 
the  great  men  by  whom  he  had  been  disthiguished  at  his  en- 
trance into  life,  some  had  been  taken  away  from  the  evil  to 
come;  some  had  carried  into  foreign  climates  their  unconquera- 
ble hatred  of  oppression;  some  were  pining  in  dungeons;  and 
some  had  poured  forth  their  blood  on  scaftblds.  That  hateful 
proscription,  facetiously  termed  the  Act  of  Indemnity  and  Ob- 
livion, had  set  a  mark  on  the  poor,  blind,  deserted  poet,  and  held 
him  up  by  name  to  the  hatred  of  a  profligate  court  and  an  in- 
constant people ! 

2.  Venal  and  licentious  scribblers,  with  just  sufficient  talent  to 
'clothe  the  thoughts  of  a  pander  in  the  style  of  a  bellman,  were 
now  the  favorite  writers  of  the  sovereign  and  the  public.  It  was 
a  loathsome  herd,  which  could  be  compared  to  nothing  so  fitly 
as  to  the  rabble  of  Comus, — grotesque'  monsters,  half-bestial, 
half-human,  dropping  with  wine,  bloated  with  gluttony,  and 
reeling  in  obscene  dances.  Amidst  these  his  Muse  was  placed, 
like  the  chaste  lady  of  the  Masque,  lofty,  spotless,  and  serene — 
to  be  chatted  at,  and  pointed  at,  and  grinned  at  by  the  whole 
rabble  of  Satyrs  and  Goblins. 

3.  If  ever  despondency  and  asperity  coulc  be  excused  in  anv 
man,  it  might  have  been  excused  in  Milton.  But  the  strength 
of  his  mind  overcame  every  calamity.  Neither  blindness,  nor 
gout,  nor  age,  nor  penury,  nor  domestic  afflictions,  nor  politi- 
cal disappointments,  nor  abuse,  tor  proscription,  nor  negiect, 
had  power  to  disturb  his  sedate   and  majestic  patience.     His 


*S6s'ame.  an  oily  grain;   a  plant   froTii  whioli  oil  is  expressei. 
•Dryden,  boo  Biographical  Ski  ich,  p.  4IJ7. 


Mu/ioN.  57b 

spiiits  do  not  seem  to  have  been  high,  but  they  wore  singtilarly 
Cqnalle.  His  temper  was  serious,  perhaps  stern;  but  it  was  a 
temper  wnicli  no  sufterings  could  render  sullen  or  fretful.  Such 
it  was  when,  on  the  eve  of  great  events,  he  returned  from  his 
travels,  in  the  prime  of  health  and  manly  beauty,  loaded  wifii 
literaiy  distinctions,  and  glowing  with  patriotic  hopes  :  such  it 
continued  to  be  when,  after  having  experienced  every  calamity 
whi'jh  is  incident  to  our  nature,  old,  poor,  sightless,  and  dis- 
gra'jed,  he  retired  to  his  hovel  to  die ! 

4  His  public  conduct  was  such  as  was  to  be  expected  from  a 
man  of  a  spirit  so  high  and  an  intellect  so  powerful.  He  lives:! 
at  one  of  the  most  memorable  eras  in  the  history  of  mankind ; 
at  the  v§ry  crisis  of  the  great  conflict  between  Oromasdes  and 
Ariraanes — liberty  and  despotism,  reason  and  prejudice.  That 
great  battle  was  fought  for  no  single  generation,  for  no  single 
land.  The  destinies  of  the  human  race  were  staked  on  the  same 
cast  wifh  the  freedom  of  the  English  people.  Then  were  first 
proclaimed  those  mighty  principles  which  have  since  worked 
their  way  into  the  depths  of  the  American  forests;  which  have 
roused  Greece  from  the  slavery  and  degradation  of  two  thousand 
years ;  and  which,  from  one  end  of  Europe  to  the  other,  have 
kindled  an  unquenchable  fire  in  the  hearts  of  the  oppressed,  and 
loosed  the  knees  of  the  oppressors  with  a  strange  and  unwonted 
fear! 

5.  We  must  conclude.  And  ygt  we  can  scarcely  tear  our- 
selves away  from  the  subject.  The  days  immediately  following 
the  publication  of  this  relic  of  Milton'  appear  to  be  peculiarly  set 
apart  and  consecrated  to  his  memory.  And  we  shall  scarcely  be 
censured  if,  on  this  his  festival,  we  be  found  lingering  near  his 
shrine,  how  worthless  soever  may  be  the  offering  which  we 
bring  to  it.  While  this  book  lies  on  our  table,  we  seem  to  be 
contemporaries  of  the  great  poet.  We  are  transported  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty  years  back.  We  can  almost  fancy  that  we  are 
visiting  him  in  his  small  lodging;  that  we  see  him  sitting  at  the 
old  organ  beneath  the  faded  green  hangings ;  that  we  can  catch 
the  quick  twinkle  of  his  eyes  rolling  in  vain  to  find  the  day ;  that 

**•  A  Ti-eatise  on  Christian  Doctrine,  compiled  from  the  Holy  Scrip- 
tures alone."  - 


581 »  NATIONAL     FIFIH     KKADKK. 

we  are  reading  in  the  lines  of  his  noble  countenance  the  proud  and 
mournful  histoiy  of  his  glory  and  his  affliction !  We  image  to 
ourselves  the  breathless  silence  in  which  we  should  listen  to  his 
slightest  word  ;  the  passionate  veneration  with  which  we  should 
kneel  to  kiss  his  hand,  and  weep  upon  it ;  the  earnestness  with 
which  we  should  endeavor  to  console  him,  if,  indeed,  such  a 
spirit  could  need  consolation,  for  the  neglect  of  an  age  unworthy 
of  his  talents  and  his  virtues ;  the  eagerness  with  which  we 
should  contest  with  his  daughters,  or  with  his  Quaker  friend, 
Elwood,  the  privilege  of  reading  Homer  to  him,  or  of  taking 
down  the  immortal  accents  which  flowed  from  his  lips. 

6.  These  are,  perhaps,  foolish  feelings.  Yet  we  can  not  be 
ashamed  of  them;  nor  shall  we  be  sorry  if  what  we  have  written 
shall,  in  any  degree,  excite  them  in  other  minds.  We  are  not 
much  in  the  habit  of  idolizing  either  the  living  or  the  dead. 
And  we  think  that  there  is  no  more  certain  indication  of  a  weak 
and  ill-regulated  intellect  than  that  propensity  which,  for  want 
of  a  better  name,  we  will  venture  to  christen  Boswellism}  But 
there  are  a  few  characters  which  have  stood  the  closest  scrutiny 
and  the  severest  testh,  which  have  been  tried  in  the  furnace  and 
have  proved  pure;  which  have  been  weighed  in  the  balance, 
and  have  not  been  found  wanting;  which  have  been  declared 
sterling  by  the  general  consent  of  mankind,  and  which  are  visi- 
bly stamped  with  the  image  and  superscription  of  the  Most  High. 

7.  These  great  men  we  trust  that  we  know  how  to  prize ;  and 
of  these  was  Milton.  The  sight  of  his  books,  the  sound  of  his 
name,  are  refreshing  to  us.  His  thoughts  resemble  those  celes- 
tial fruits  and  flowers  which  the  Virgin  Martyr  of  Massinger* 
sent  down  from  the  gardens  of  Paradise  to  the  earth,  distin- 
guished from  the  productions  of  other  soils,  not  only  by  their 
superior  bloom  and  sweetness,  but  by  tlieir  miraculous  eflicacy 
to  invigorate  and  to  heal.  They  are  powerful,  not  only  to  de- 
light, but  to  elevate  and  purify.     Nor  do  we  envy  the  man  who 

•See  p.  300,  note  2. — *  Philip  Massinger,  one  of  the  very  best  of  tho 
old  English  dramatists,  was  born  hi  1684,  and  died  in  1640.  He  wrote 
a  great  number  of  pieces,  of  which  eighteen  have  been  preserved.  Tho 
**  Virgin  Martyr,"  the  "Bondman,"  the  "  Fatjvl  Dowry,"  "The  City 
Msidara."  and  "A  New  Way  to  Pay  Old  Debts,"  are  his  best  known 
productions. 


HYMN    {>V    OUR    FiK!^T    TAKKNTS.  581 

can  sstiuly  either  the  life  or  the  wiitings  of  the  great  poet  and 
patriot  vvitliout  aspiring  to  enuilate,  not  indeed  the  sublime 
works  wifli  which  his  genius  has  enriched  our  literature,  but  the 
zeal  with  which  he  labored  for  the  public  good,  the  fortitude 
with  which  he  endured  every  private  calamity,  the  lofty  disdain 
with  which  he  looked  down  on  temptation  and  dangers,  the 
deadly  hatred  which  he  bore  to  bigots  and  tyrants,  and  the  faith 
wnich  he  so  sternly  kept  with  his  country  and  with  big  fame. 

Macaulay.* 


192.  Hymn  of  our  First  Parents. 

1    rriHESE  are  thy  glorious  works,  Parent  of  good, 
X    Almighty  !  thine  this  universal  frame. 
Thus  wondrous  fair ;  thyself  how  wondrous,  then, 
'Unspeakable,  who  sitt'st  above  these  heavens, 
To  us  invisibh%  or  dimly  seen 
In  these  thy  lowest  works :  yet  these  declare 
Thy  goodness  beyond  thought,  and  power  divine. 
Speak,  ye  who  best  can  tell,  ye  sons  of  light. 
Angels ;  for  ye  behold  him,  and  with  songs 
And  choral  symphonies,  day  without  night. 
Circle  his  throne  rejoicing ;  ye  in  heaven, 
On  earth  join,  all  ye  creatures,  to  extol 
Him  first.  Him  last.  Him  midst,  and  without  end. 

2.  Fairest  of  stai-s,  last  in  the  train  of  night, 
If  better  thou  belong  not  to  the  dawn. 
Sure  pledge  of  day,  that  crown'st  the  smiling  morn 
Wifh  thy  bright  circlet,  praise  Him  in  thy  sphere. 
While  day  arises,  that  sweet  hour  of  prime. 
Thou  Sun,  of  this  great  world  both  eye  and  soul, 
Acknowledge  Him  thy  greater ;  sound  His  praise 
In  thy  eternal  course,  both  when  thou  climb'st, 
And  when  high  noon  hast  gain'd,  and  when  thou  fall'st. 
Moon,  that  now  meet'st  the  Orient  sun,  now  fliest 
With  the  fix'd  stars,  fix'd  in  their  orb  that  flies; 
And  ye  five  other  wandering  fires,  that  move 


*  See  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  155. 


582  NATIONAL    KIFIH     KKAHKR. 

In  mystic  dance,  not  without  sonpr,  rcRonn<1 
His  prnise  who  out  of  darkness  callM  up  light. 

3.  Air,  and  yu  elements,  the  eldest  birth 

Of  Nature  s  womb,  that  in  quaternion  run 
Perpetual  circle  multiform,  and  mix 
And  nourish  all  things,  let  your  ceaseless  change 
Vary  to  our  great  Maker  still  n(;w  praise. 
Ye  mists  and  exhalations,  that  now  rise 
From  hill  or  steaming  lake,  dusky  or  gray, 
.    Till  the  sun  paint  youi-  fleecy  skirts  with  gold, 
In  honor  to  the  world's  great  Author  rise ; 
Whether  to  deck  with  clouds  the  uncolor'd  sky, 
Or  wet  the  thirsty  earth  with  falling  showers. 
Rising  or  falling,  still  advance  His  praise. 

4.  II is  praise,  ye  winds,  that  from  four  quarters  blow, 
Breathe  soft  or  loud  ;  and  wave  your  tops,  ye  pinea, 
Wifh  every  plant,  in  sign  of  worship  wave. 
Fountains,  and  ye  that  warble,  as  ye  flow. 
Melodious  murmurs,  warbling,  tune  Ills  praise; 
Join  voices,  all  ye  living  souls;  yc  birds, 

That  singing  up  to  heaven-gate  ascend, 

Bear  on  your  wings  and  in  your  notes  His  praise. 

Ye  that  in  waters  glide,  and  ye  that  walk 

The  earth,  and  stately  tread  or  lowly  creep. 

Witness  if  I  be  silent,  morn  or  even. 

To  hill  oi  valley,  fountain  or  fresh  shade. 

Made  vocal  by  ray  song,  and  taught  His  praise.     Mtlton. 

ioiiN  Milton,  one  of  the  greatest  of  all  poets  and  scliolars,  was  born  in  London 
on  tlie  iitli  of  Df^ceinber,  1008.  His  father,  hbcrally  educated  and  from  a  good 
family,  havinsj  been  disinlieriteil  for  embracing  Protestantism,  became  a  scriv- 
ener, and  acciiiired  a  competent  fortune.  The  firmness  and  the  sutferings  of  tiia 
father  for  conscience'  sake  were  not  lost  upon  the  son,  who  became  a  stern,  un- 
bending champion  of  religious  freedom.  Milton  was  educated  with  great  cure, 
lie  studied  ancient  and  modern  languages,  delighted  in  poetical  reading,  and 
jiiltivaled  the  imisical  taste  which  he  inherited  from  his  father.  At  rtlteen  he 
was  sent  to  St.  Paul's  School,  I^ondou,  and  two  yeai^s  later  to  Christ's  College, 
Cambridge,  where  he  graduated  in  due  course.  He  wrote  several  poems  at  an 
ea;iy  ujie.  His  "  Hynni  on  tlie  Nativity,"  comi>osed  in  his  twenly-first  >ear,  is 
one  of  t!t'>  noblest  of  his  works,  and  perhaps  the  finest  lyric  in  the  I'inglish  lan- 
guaue.  Leaviiii.'  tiie  university  in  KilW,  he  went  lo  the  house  of  his  lather,  at 
Hattun  in  Huckiuifhamsliire,  where  he  liveil  l\\e  years,  stuilying  chtssiral  lit^-ra- 
turp  ttud  writinjf  iioenis.     During  this  happy  period  of  his  life  he  wrotn  **  L'Alie- 


THE    PHKKNSY    OF    OKKA.  &S3 

gro,"  "  II  Penseroso,"  "  Arcades,"  "  Lycidas,"  and  "  Comus,"  In  1638  the 
poet  visited  the  Continent,  where  he  remained  fifteen  months,  principally  in 
Italy  anil  France.  His  study  of  the  works  of  art  during  this  period  probably  sug- 
ge!>ted  some  of  his  best  poetical  creations.  On  his  return  to  England  in  1639  he 
took  up  his  residence  in  London.  The  next  twenty  years,  during  the  Civil  War, 
the  Co'nmonwealth,  and  the  Protectorate,  the  poet's  lyre  was  mute.  A  Repub- 
lican in  politics  and  an  Independent  in  religion,  during  this  stormy  period  he 
threw  himself  promptly  and  fearlessly  into  the  vortex  of  the  struggle,  and,  as  a 
controversialist,  enrolled  Ids  name  among  the  noblest  and  most  eloquent  of  the 
writers  of  old  English  prose.  In  1643  Milton  married  Mary  Powell,  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  high  cavalier  of  Oxfordshire.  In  1649  he  was  appointed  Foreign  or  Latin 
Secretary  to  the  Council  of  State,  and  retained  the  same  position  during  the  Pro- 
tectorate. For  ten  years  his  eyesight  had  been  failing,  when,  in  1652,  he  became 
totally  blind.  About  the  same  period  his  first  wife  died,  but  he  married  soon 
after.  His  second  wife,  Catharine  Woodcock,  died  in  1656.  The  Restoration 
of  1660  consigned  the  poet,  for  the  last  fourteen  years  of  his  life,  to  an  obscurity 
which  gave  him  leisure  to  complete  the  mighty  poetical  task  which  was  to  se- 
cure him  an  inunortality  of  literary  fame.  In  1664  he  married  his  ihird  wife, 
Elizabeth  Minsiiul,  of  a  good  Cheshire  family.  In  1665  he  completed  "  Para- 
dise Lost,"  which  was  first  published  in  1667.  In  1671  appeared  the  "  Paradise 
Regained,"  to  which  was  subjoined  "  Samson  Agonistes."  He  died  on  the  8th 
of  xNovember,  l(i74.  For  a  further  description  of  Milton  and  his  poetry,  the 
reader  is  referred  to  the  two  exercises  immediately  preceding  the  above 


193.  The  Phrensy  of  Okra. 

Hartman.  Is  she  well  ? 

Theobald.  Her  body  is. 

Hart.  And  not  her  mind  ?    Oh,  direst  wreck  of  all ! 
That  noble  mind  ! — But  'tis  some  passing  seizure 
Some  powerful  movement  of  a  transient  nature ; 
It  is  not  madness  ! 

Thco.  'Tis  Heaven's  infliction  :  let  us  call  it  so ; 
Give  it  no  other  name. 

Eleanora.  Nay,  do  not  thus  despair ;  when  she  beholds  ua, 
She'll  know  her  friends,  and,  by  our  kindly  soothing, 
Be  gradually  restored — 

Alice.  Let  me  go  to  her. 

Theo.  Nay,  forbear,  I  pray  thee ; 
I  will  myself  wifli  thee,  my  wortly  Hartman, 
Go  in  and  lead  her  forth. 

Orra.  Come  back,  come  back  !  the  fierce  and  fiery  light! 

Theo.  Shrink  not,  dear  love !  it  is  the  light  of  day. 

Orra.  Have  cocks  crowVl  yet? 

T}ieo»  Yes :  twice  I've  heard  already  s,^ 


jSS-t  NATIONAL    Finn     KKAHKK. 

Their  matin  sound.     Look  up  to  the  bhie  sky — 
Is  it  not  daylight  ?     And  these  green  boughs 
Are  fresh  and  fragrant  round  thee :  every  sense 
Tells  tnet  it  is  the  cheerful  early  day. 

Orra.  Aye,  so  it  is ;  day  takes  his  daily  turns 
Rising  between  the  gulfy  dells  of  night, 
Like  whiten'd  billows  on  a  gloomy  sea. 
Till  glow-worms  gleam,  and  stars  peep  through  the  'lark, 
And  will-o'-the  wisp  his  dancing  taper  light, 
They  will  not  come  again.  [Bendinc;  her  ear  to  the  f; round 

Hark,  hark  !  aye,  Lark ! 
They  are  all  there :  I  hear  their  hollow  sound 
Full  many  a  fathom  down. 

Tlieo.  Be  still,  poor  troubled  soul !  they'll  ne'er  return — 
They  are  forever  gone.     Be  well  assured 
Thou  shalt  from  henceforth  have  a  cheerful  home, 
Wifh  crackling  fagots  on  thy  midnight  fire. 
Blazing  like  day  around  thee ;  and  thy  friends — 
Thy  living,  loving  friends — still  by  thy  side, 
To  speak  to  thee  and  cheer  thee.     See,  my  Orra! 
They  are  beside  thee  now ;  dost  thou  not  know  thera? 

Orra.  No,  no!  athwart  the  wavering,  garish  light, 
Things  move  and  seem  to  be,  and  yet  are  nothing. 

JElea.  My  gentle  Orra,  hast  thou  then  forgot  me  ? 
Dost  not  thou  know  my  voice  ? 

Orra.  'Tis  like  an  old  tune  to  my  ear  returned. 
For  there  be  those  who  sit  in  cheerful  halls. 
And  breathe  sweet  air,  and  speak  wifh  pleasant  sounds; 
And  once  I  lived  with  such ;  some  years  gone  by, — 
1  wot  not  now  how  long. 

Hughobert.  Keen  words  that  rend  my  heart :  thou  hadst  a 
home. 
And  one  whose  faith  was  pledged  for  thy  protection. 

Urnton.  Be  more  composed,  my  lord  ;  some  faint  remembrance 
Returns  upon  her  with  the  well-known  soimd 
Of  voices  once  familiar  to  her  ear. 
Let  Alice  «^iiig  to  her  some  favorite  tune 
That  may  lost  thoughts  recall.  [Alice  sings. 

Orra.  lla,  ha  I  the  ivitch'd  air  singF  for  theo  bravely. 


THE    PHRKNSY    OF    OKRA.  585 

Hoot  owls  through  mantling  fog  for  nintin  birds? 
It  lures  not  me. — I  know  thee  well  enough  : 
The  bones  of  murder'd  men  thy  measure  beat, 
And  fleshless  heads  nod  to  thee. — Otf,  I  say  ! 
Why  are  ye  here  ?     That  is  the  blessed  sun. 

Elect.  Ah,  Orra !  do  not  look  upon  us  thus : 
These  are  the  voices  of  thy  loving  friends 
That  speak  to  thee ;  this  is  a  friendly  hand 
That  presses  thine  so  kindly. 

Hart.  Oh,  grievous  state !  what  terror  seizes  thee  I 

Orra.  Take  it  away  !     It  was  the  swathed  dead ; 
I  know  its  clammy,  chill,  and  bony  touch. 
Come  not  again  ;  Fm  strong  and  terrible  now  : 
Mine  eyes  have  look'd  upon  all  dreadful  things ; 
And  when  the  earth  yawns,  and  the  hell-blast  sounds, 
ril  bide  the  trooping  of  unearthly  steps, 
Wifli  stiff,  clench'd,  terrible  strengih. 

Hugh.  A  murderer  is  a  guiltless  wretch  to  me. 

Hart.  Be  patient ;  'tis  a  momentary  pitch ; 
Let  me  encounter  it. 

Orra.  Take  off  from  me  thy  strangely  fasten'd  eye; 
I  may  not  look  upon  thee — yet  I  must. 
Unfix  thy  baleful  glance.     Art  thou  a  snake? 
Something  of  horrid  power  within  thee  dwells. 
Still,  still  that  poweiful  eye  doth  suck  me  in, 
Like  a  dark  eddy  to  its  wheeling  core. 
Spare  me !  oh  spare  me.  Being  of  strange  power, 
And  at  thy  feet  my  subject  head  I'll  lay. 

Elea.  Alas,  the  piteous  sight !  to  see  her  thus. 
The  noble,  generous,  playful,  stately  Orra ! 

Theo.  Out  on  thy  hateful  and  ungenerous  guile ' 
Think'st  thou  I'll  suffer  o'er  her  wretched  state 
The  slightest  shadow  of  a  base  control  ? 

[Raising  Orra /row  the  ground. 
No ;  rise,  thou  stately  flower  with  rude  blasts  rent : 
As  honor'd  art  thou  with  thy  broken  stem 
And  leaflets  strew'd,  as  in  thy  summer's  pride. 
I've  seen  thee  worship'd  like  a  regal  dame, 
Witli  every  studied  form  of  inark'd  devotion. 


586  NA'nONAL   FIFl'H    READER. 

Whilst  I,  in  distant  silence,  scarcely  proffer'd 

Even  a  plain  soldier's  courtesy ;  but  now, 

No  liege  man  to  his  crowned  mistress  sworn, 

Bound  and  devoted  is  as  1  to  thee ; 

And  he  who  offers  to  thy  alter'd  state 

The  slightest  seeming  of  diminish'd  reverence. 

Must  in  my  blood — [To  IIartman]    Oh  pardon  me,  my  friend  I 

Thou'st  wrung  my  heart. 

Hart.  Nay,  do  thou  pardon  me, — I  am  to  blame : 
Thy  noble  heart  shall  not  again  be  wrung. 
But  what  can  now  be  done  ?     O'er  such  wild  ravings 
There  must  be  some  control. 

Theo.  0  none !  none  !  none !  but  gentle  sympathy, 
And  watchfulness  of  love. — My  noble  Orra! 
Wander  where'er  thou  wilt,  thy  vagrant  steps 
Shall  folio w'd  be  by  one  who  shall  not  weary, 
Nor  e'er  detach  him  from  his  hopeless  task ; 
Boimd  to  thee  now  as  fairest,  gentlest  beauty 
Could  ne'er  have  bound  him. 

Alice.  See  how  she  gazes  on  him  with  a  look, 
Subsiding  gradually  to  softer  sadness, 
Ilalf  saying  that  she  knows  him. 

Mea.  There  is  a  kindness  in  her  changing  eye.  Baili.ib. 

Joanna  Baillie  was  bora  in  ITfiii,  at  Bothwell,  in  Lanark,  Scotland,  of  which 
place  her  father  was  the  parish  minister.  iSlie  removed  to  London  at  an  early 
ajie,  and  resided  in  that  city,  or  its  neigliborliood,  almost  constantly.  IJer  ftixt 
volume  of  dramas,  "  Plays  of  the  Passions,"  weus  published  in  1798,  her  second 
in  IHO'i,  her  third  in  181'i,  and  her  fourth  in  18M.  A  volume  of  her  miscellaneous 
poems,  of  wliicli  some  of  the  small  ones  are  exceedingly  good,  appeared  in 
1841.  Her  tragedies,  though  not  well  adapted  to  the  stage,  are  fine  |)oems, 
noble  in  sentiment,  and  classical  and  vigorous  in  language.  Scott  numbered 
the  description  of  Orra's  madness  with  the  sublimest  scenes  ever  written,  and 
com|)ared  the  language  to  Shaksi'Eare's.  Miss  Baillie  died  at  Ham|)stead  ic 
Fel)ruary,  1841. 


194r.  Satan's  Encounter  wrrH  Death. 

BLACK  it  stood  as  "night. 
Fierce  as  ten  furies,  terrible  as  hell. 
And  shook  a  dreadful  dart :  what  seein'd  his  head, 
The  likeness  of  a  kingly  crown  had  on 
Satan  was  now  at  l.aud  ;  an<l  iVom  his  seat 


Satan's  kncountkr  with  death.  587 

TliG  monster  moving  onward  came  as  fast, 
With  horrid  strides :  hell  trembled  as  he  strode. 
The  undaunted  fiend  wiiat  tliis  might  be  admired — 
Admired,  not  fear'd :  God  and  his  Son  excei)t, 
Creiited  thing  naught  valued  he,  nor  shunn'd; 
And  with  disdainful  look  thus  first  began  : — 

"  Whence,  and  what  art  thou,  execrable  shape ! 
That  darest,  though  grim  and  terrible,  advance 
Thy  miscreated  front  athwart  my  way 
To  yonder  gates?     Through  them  I  mean  to  pass, 
That  be  assured,  without  leave  ask'd  of  thee : 
Retire,  or  taste  thy  folly ;  and  learn  by  proof, 
Hellborn !  not  to  contend  with  spirits  of  heaven !" 

To  whom  the  goblin,  full  of  wrath  replied  : — 

"Art  thou  that  traitor  angel,  art  thou  he. 

Who  first  broke  peace  in  heaven,  and  faith,  till  then 

Unbroken,  and  in  proud  rebellious  arms 

Drew  after  him  the  third  part  of  heaven's  sons. 

Conjured  against  the  Highest;  for  which  both  thou 

And  they,  outcast  from  God,  are  here  condemn'd 

To  waste  eternal  days  in  woe  and  pain  ? 

And  reckon'st  thou  thyself  wifh  spirits  of  heaven, 

Hell-doomVl !  and  breathest  defiance  here  and  scorn, 

W^here  I  reign  king,  and,  to  enrage  thee  more. 

Thy  king  and  lord !     Back  to  thy  punishment, 

False  fugitive !  and  to  thy  speed  add  wings ; 

Lest  with  a  whip  of  scorpions  I  pursue 

Thy  lingering,  or  with  one  stroke  of  this  dart 

Strange  horror  seize  thee,  and  pangs  unfelt  before.** 

So  spake  the  grisly  terror ;  and  in  shipe. 
So  speaking,  and  so  threatening,  grew  ten-fold 
More  dreadful  and  deform :  on  the  other  side, 
Insensed  wifh  indignation,  Satan  stood 
Unterrified,  and  like  a  comet  burn'd. 
That  fires  the  length  of  Ophiiichus'  huge 


Ophiuchus  (6feu'kus),  the  Serpent-bearer;  a  cluster  of  fixed  stars, 
wbosfi  center  is  nearly  over  the  equator,  opposite  to  Orion. 


588  NATIONAL    VWl'll     RKADKK. 

In  the  Arctic  sky  and  from  his  hornd  hair 
Shakes  pestilence  ami  war. 

5.  Each  at  the  head 

Level'd  his  deadly  aim  ;  their  fatal  hands 
No  second  stroke  intend ;  and  such  a  frown 
Each  cast  at  the  other,  as  when  two  black  clcuds, 
Wifli  heaven's  artillery  fraught,  come  rattling  on 
Over  the  Caspian ;  then  stand  front  to  front 
Hovering  a  space,  till  winds  the  signal  blow 
To  join  their  dark  encounter  in  mid  air : 
So  frown'd  the  mighty  com'batants,  that  hell 
Grew  darker  at  their  frown ;  so  match'd  they  stood , 
For  never  but  once  more  was  either  like 
To  meet  so  great  a  Foe :  and  now  great  deeds 
Had  been  achieved,  whereof  all  hell  had  rung, 
Had  not  the  snaky  sorceress  that  sat 
Fast  by  hell-gate  and  kept  the  fatal  key, 
Risen,  and  with  hideous  outcry  rush'd  between, 

lilLTQM. 


195.  Murder  of  King  Duncan. 
Macbeth.' 

IS  this  a  dagger  which  I  see  before  me. 
The  handle  toward  my  hand  ?     Come,  let  me  clutch  thee. — 
I  have  thee  not,  and  yet  1  see  thee  still. 
Art  thou  not,  fatal  vision,  sensible 
To  feeling  as  to  sight?  or  art  thou  but 
A  dagger  of  the  mind ;  a  false  creation, 
Proceeding  from  the  heat  oppressed  brain  J 
I  see  thee  yet,  in  form  as  palpable 
As  this  which  now  I  draw. 
Thou  marshal'st  me  the  way  that  I  was  going ; 
And  such  an  instrument  1  was  to  use. 
Mine  eyes  are  made  the  fool  o'  th'  other  sensea, 
Or  else  worth  all  the  rest.     I  see  thee  still ; 
And  on  thy  blade  and  dudgeon,  gouts  of  blood, 

'  Prompted  by  ambition,  and  urged  on  by  his  wife,  Macbeth  resolves 
to  murder  the  king,  theu  his  guest,  and  8el/.e  the  crown. 


MURDER    OF    KING    DUNCAN.  i)89 

Which  was  not  so  before. — There's  nc  such  thin/j; 
It  is  the  bloody  business,  which  informs 
Thus  to  mine  eyes. 

Now  o'er  the  one  half  world 
Nature  seems  dead,  and  wicked  dreams  abuse 
The  curtain'd  sleep  :  now  witchcraft  celebrates 
Pale  Hec'ate's'  offerings ;  and  wither'd  murder, 
Alarum'd  by  his  sentinel,  the  wolf, 
Whose  howl's  his  watch,  thus  wife  his  stealthy  pace, 
With  Tarquin's'  ravishing  strides,  toward  his  design 
Moves  like  a  ghost. — Thou  sure  and  firm-set  earth. 
Hear  not  my  steps,  which  way  they  walk,  for  fear 
Thy  very  stones  prate  of  my  whero-about. 
And  take  the  present  horror  from  the  time. 
Which  now  suits  with  it.  While  I  threat  he  lives ; 
Words  to  the  heat  of  deeds  too  cold  breath  gives.  [A  bell  rings 
I  go,  and  it  is  done;  the  bell  invites  me : 
Hear  it  not,  Duncan ;  for  it  is  a  knell 

That  summons  thee  to  heaven,  or  to  hell.  [Exit, 

Enter  Lady  Macbeth. 

Lady  M.  That  which  hath  made  them  drunk,  hath  made  me 
bold: 
What  hath  quench'd  them, hath  given  me  fire. — Hark! — peace! 
It  was  the  owl  that  shriek'd,  the  fatal  bellman. 
Which  gives  the  stern'st  good-night.     He  is  about  it — 
The  doors  are  open ;  and  the  surfeited  grooms 
Do  mock  their  charge  with  snores :  I  have  drugg'd  their  possets. 
That  death  and  nature  do  contend  about  them, 
Whether  they  live  or  die. 

Macbeth  \within?j^  Who's  there  ? — what,  ho ! 

Lady  M.  Alack !  I  am  afraid  they  have  awaked, 
And  'tis  not  done.     The  attempt,  and  not  the  deed. 
Confounds  us.     Hark ! — I  laid  their  daggers  ready ; 
He  could  not  miss  them. — Had  he  not  resembled 
My  father  as  he  slept,  I  had  don't. — My  husband ! 

*  Hecatk,  see  p.  321,  note  1. — '  Takquin,  two  kings  of  Rome  .  Superbus 
Takquinius,  here  alluded  to,  seventh  in  the  line  of  kings,  obtained  the 
throne  by  the  murder  of  Sb^vius  Tullius,  whose  daughter,  Tullia,  he 
had  married. 


590  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Enter  Macbeth. 

Much.  I've  done  the  deed! — didst  thou  not  hear  a  noise? 

Lady  M.  1  heard  the  owl  scream,  and  the  cricket's  cry. 
Did  not  you  speak? 

Macb,  When  ? 

Lady  M.  Now. 

Macb.  As  I  descended  ? 

Lady  M.  Aye. 

Mack  Hark !—   . 
Who  lies  i'  the  second  chamber  ? 

Lady  M,  Don al bain. 

Macb,  This  is  a  sorry  sight.  \^Lookinff  on  his  hands. 

Lady  M.  A  foolish  thought,  to  say  a  sorry  sight. 

Macb,  There's  one  did  laugh  in's  sleep,  and  one  cried,  Mutider  ! 
That  they  did  wake  each  other ;  1  stood  and  heard  thein ; 
But  they  did  say  their  prayers,  and  addrcss'd  them 
Again  to  sleep. 

Lady  M.  Tliere  are  two  lodged  together. 

Macb,  One  cried,  God  bless  us!  and  Amen!  the  other; 
As  they  had  seen  me  wifli  these  hangman's  hands 
Listening  their  fear.     I  could  not  say,  Amen, 
When  they  did  say,  God  bless  us. 

Lady  M.  Consider  it  not  so  deeply. 

Macb.  But  wherefore  could  not  I  pronounce,  Amen  ? 
I  had  most  need  of  blessing,  and  amen 
Stuck  in  my  throat. 

Lady  M.  These  deeds  must  not  be  thought 
After  tliese  ways;  so,  it  will  make  us  mad. 

Macb,  Methought  I  heard  a  voice  cry.  Sleep  no  more! 
Macbeth  doth  murder  sleep — the  innocent  sleep — 
Slee}}  that  knits  up  the  raveVd  sleeve  of  care, 
The  death  of  each  day^s  life,  sore  labor's  bath, 
Balm  of  hurt  minds,  great  nature^ s  second  course. 
Chief  nourisher  in  life's  feast: — 

Lady  M.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

Macb.  Still  it  cried,  Sleep  no  more,  to  all  the  house : 
Glamis  hath  murder'^d  sleep ;  and  therefore  Cawdor 
Sliall  sleep  no  more — Macbeth  shall  deep  no  nun-el 


MURDEK   OF   KING    DUNCAN.  t»dl 

Lady  M.  Who  was  it  that  thus  cried  ?     Why,  wortliy  thaue, 
You  do  unbend  your  noble  strength,  to  think 
So  brain-sickly  of  things.     Go,  get  some  water, 
And  wash  this  filthy  witness  from  your  hand. — 
Why  did  j'ou  bring  these  daggers  from  the  place? 
They  must  lie.     Go,  carry  them,  and  smear 
The  sleepy  grooms  witii  blood. 

Mach.  I'll  go  no  more : 

I  am  afraid  to  think  what  I  have  done ; 
Look  on't  again,  I  dare  not. 

Lady  M.  Infirm  of  purpose  I 

Give  me  the  daggers.     The  sleeping  and  the  dead 
Are  but  as  pictui-es :  'tis  the  eye  of  childhood 
That  fears  a  painted  devil.     If  he  do  bleed, 
I'll  gild  the  faces  of  the  grooms  withal, 
For  it  must  seem  their  guilt.  [Exit.     Knocking  vAthtn, 

Macb.  Whence  is  that  knocking  ? 

How  is't  with  me,  when  every  noise  appalls  me  ? 
What  hands  are  here? — Ha!  they  pluck  out  mine  eyes! 
Will  all  great  Neptune's  ocean  wash  this  blood 
Clean  from  my  hands?     No:  this  my  hand  will  rather 
The  multitudinous  seas  incarnadine,' 
Making  the  green — one  red. 

Reenter  Lady  Macbeth. 

Lady  M.  My  hands  are  of  your  color ;  but  I  shame 
To  wear  a  heart  so  white.     [Knocking^     I  hear  a  knocking 
At  the  south  entry.     Retire  we  to  our  chamber : 
A  little  water  clears  us  of  this  deed ; 
How  easy  is  it,  then  ?     Your  constancy 

Hath  left  you  unattended.    [Knocking^    Hark !  more  knocking : 
Get  on  your  night-gown,  lest  occasion  call  us, 
And  show  us  to  be  watchers.     Be  not  lost 
So  poorly  in  your  thoughts. 

Macb.  To  know  my  deed, — 'twere  best  not  know  myself. 

[Knocking.. 
Wake  Duncan  wifli  thy  knocking !     I  would  thou  couldst. 

SlIAKSPEARE. 


Ill  dlr'  uu  <llne,  to  stain  re<l,  or  '»f  a  tlesb-uolor. 


592  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 


196.  The  Knocking  at  the  Gate,  in  Macueth. 

FROM  my  boyish  days  I  had  always  felt  a  great  perplexity  on 
one  point  in  Macbeth.  It  was  this :  the  knocking  at  the 
gate,  which  succeeds  to  the  murder  of  Duncan,  produced  to 
my  feelings  an  effect  for  which  I  never  could  account.  The 
effect  was,  that  it  reflected  back  upon  the  murder  a  peculiar 
awfulness  and  a  depth  of  solemnity  ;  yet,  however  obstinately  I 
endeavored  wifh  my  understanding  to  comprehend  this,  for 
many  years  I  never  could  see  why  it  should  produce  such  an 
effect.  Here  I  pause  for  one  moment,  to  exhort  the  reader 
never  to  pay  any  attention  to  his  understanding  when  it  stands 
m  opposition  to  any  other  faculty  of  his  mind.  The  mere  un 
derstanding,  however  useful  and  indispensable,  is  the  meanest 
faculty  in  the  human  mind,  and  the  most  to  be  distrusted ;  and 
yet  the  great  majority  of  people  trust  to  nothing  else ;  which 
may  do  for  ordinary  life,  but  not  for  philosophical  purposes. 

2.  My  understanding  could  furnish  no  reason  why  the  knock- 
ing at  the  gate  in  Macbeth  should  produce  any  effect,  direct  or 
reflected.  In  fact,  my  understanding  said  positively  that  it 
could  not  produce  any  effect.  But  I  knew  better :  I  felt  that  it 
did ;  and  I  waited  and  clung  to  the  problem  until  further  knowl- 
edge should  enable  me  to  solve  it.  At  length  I  solved  it  to  my 
own  satisfaction,  and  my  solution  is  this :  Murder  in  ordinary 
cases,  where  the  sympathy  is  wholly  directed  to  the  case  of  the 
murdered  person,  is  an  incident  of  coarse  and  vulgar  horror ; 
and  for  this  reason,  that  it  flings  the  interest  exclusively  upon 
the  natural  but  ignoble  instinct  by  which  we  cleave  to  life ;  an 
instinct  which,  as  being  indispensable  to  the  primal  law  of  self- 
preservation,  is  the  same  in  kind  (though  different  in  degree) 
among  all  living  creatures:  this  instinct,  therefore,  because  it 
annihilates  all  distinctions,  and  degrades  the  greatest  of  men  to 
the  level  of  "the  poor  beetle  that  we  tread  on,"  exhibits  human 
natui-e  in  its  most  abject  and  humiliating  attitude. 

3.  Such  an  attitude  would  little  suit  the  purposes  of  the  poSt 
What,  then,  must  he  do?  He  must  throw  the  interest  on  the 
murderer.  Our  sympathy  must  be  wifti  him  (of  course  I  mean 
H  sympathy  of  comprehension,  a  sympathy  by  which  we  enter 
into  his  feelincs  ^nd  are  made  lo  tuuieistand  theui — not  »  syiu 


THE    KN.  )CKING    AT   THP:    GATE,    IN    MAOBCTH  59J5 

palhy  of  pity  or  approbation).  In  the  murdered  person  all 
strife  of  thought,  all  tlux  and  reflux  of  passion  and  of  purpose, 
are  crushed  by  one  overwhehning  panic  :  the  fear  of  instant 
death  sniites  him  "  with  its  petrific  mace."  liut  in  the  murderer 
— such  a  murderer  as  a  poet  will  condescend  to — there  must  be 
raging  some  great  storm  of  passion — ^jealousy,  ambition,  venge- 
ance, hatred — which  will  create  a  hell  within  him ;  and  into 
this  hell  we  are  to  look. 

4.  In  Macbeth,  for  the  sake  of  gratifying  his  own  enormous 
and  teeming  faculty  of  creation,  Shakspeare  has  introduced  two 
murderers ;  and,  as  usual  in  his  hands,  they  are  remarkably  dis- 
criminated :  but,  though  in  Macbeth  the  strife  of  mind  is  greatei 
than  in  his  wife — the  tiger  spirit  not  so  awake,  and  his  feelings 
caught  chiefly  by  contagion  from  her, — yet,  as  both  were  finally 
involved  in  the  guilt  of  murder,  the  murderous  mind  of  necessity 
is  finally  to  be  presumed  in  both.  This  was  to  be  expressed ; 
and  on  its  own  account,  as  well  as  to  make  it  a  more  proportion- 
able antagonist  to  the  unoff*ending  nature  of  their  victim,  "  the 
gracious  Duncan,"  and  adequately  to  expound  "  the  deep  damna- 
tion of  his  taking  off","  this  was  to  be  expressed  with  peculiar 
energy.  We  were  to  be  made  to  feel  that  the  human  nature, 
i.  e.,  the  divine  nature  of  love  and  mercy,  spread  through  the 
hearts  of  all  creatures,  and  seldom  utterly  withdrawn  from  man, 
was  gone,  vanished,  extinct;  and  that  the  fiendish  nature  had 
taken  its  place.  And,  as  this  eff*ect  is  marvelously  accomplished 
in  the  dialogues  and  soliloquies  themselves,  so  it  is  finally  con- 
summated by  the  expedient  under  consideration ;  and  it  is  to 
this  that  I  now  solicit  the  reader's  attention. 

5.  If  the  reader  has  ever  witnessed  a  wife,  daughter,  or  sister 
in  a  fainting  fit,  he  may  chance  to  have  observed  tiiat  the  most 
aff"ecting  moment  in  such  a  spectacle  is  that  in  which  a  sigh  and 
a  stirring  announce  the  reconmiencement  of  suspended  life.  Or, 
if  the  reader  has  ever  been  present  in  a  vast  metropolis  on  the 
day  when  some  great  national  idol  was  carried  in  funeral  pomp 
to  liis  grave,  and  chancing  to  walk  near  the  course  through 
which  it  passed,  has  felt  powerfully,  in  the  silence  and  desertion 
of  the  streets,  and  in  the  stagnation  of  ordinary  business,  the 
deep  interest  which  at  that  moment  was  possessing  the  heart  of 
man, — if  all  at  once  he  should  hear  the  deathlike  stillness  bro 

38 


694  NATIONAL    FIFfH    READER. 

ken  up  by  the  sonnd  of  wheels  rattling  away  from  tlie  scene, 
and  making  known  that  the  transitory  vision  was  dissolved,  he 
will  be  aware  that  at  no  moment  was  his  sense  of  the  complete 
suspension  and  pause  in  ordinary  human  concerns  so  full  and 
atfecting  as  at  that  moment  when  the  suspension  ceases  and  the 
goings-on  of  human  life  are  suddenly  resumed. 

6.  All  action  in  any  direction  is  best  expounded,  measured, 
and  made  apprehensible  by  reaction.  Now  apply  this  to  the 
case  in  Macbeth.  Here,  as  I  have  said,  the  retiring  of  the  hu- 
man heart  and  the  entrance  of  the  fiendish  heart  was  to  be  ex- 
pressed and  made  sensible.  Another  world  has  stepped  in,  and 
the  murderers  are  taken  out  of  the  region  of  human  things,  hu- 
man })urposes,  human  desires.  They  ai-e  transfigured :  Lad)- 
Macbeth  is  "unsexed;"  Macbeth  has  forg-ot  that  he  was  born  of 
woman  :  both  are  conformed  to  the  image  of  devils ;  and  the 
world  of  devils  is  suddenly  revealed.  But  how  shall  this  be 
conveyed  and  made  palpable  ? 

7.  In  order  that  a  new  world  may  step  in,  this  world  must  for 
a  time  disappear.  The  murderers  and  the  murder  must  be  in- 
sulated— cut  otf  by  an  immeasurable  gulf  from  the  ordinary  tide 
and  succession  of  human  affairs — locked  up  and  sequestered  in 
some  deep  recess' ;  we  must  be  made  sensible  that  the  world  of 
ordinary  life  is  suddenly  arrested — laid  asleep — tranced — racked 
into  a  dread  armistice :  time  must  be  annihilated ;  relation  to 
things  without  abolished ;  and  all  must  pass  self-withdrawn  into 
a  deep  syncope  and  suspension  of  earthly  passion.  Hence  it  is, 
that  when  the  deed  is  done,  when  the  work  of  darkness  is  per- 
fect, then  the  world  of  darkness  passes  away  like  a  pageantry  in 
the  clouds :  the  knocking  at  the  gate  is  heard,  and  it  makes 
known  audibly  that  the  reaction  has  commenced :  the  human 
has  made  its  reflux  upon  the  fiendish ;  the  pulses  of  life  are  be- 
ginning to  beat  again,  and  the  reestablishment  of  the  goings-on 
of  the  world  in  which  we  live,  first  makes  us  profoundly  sensible 
of  the  awful  parenthesis  that  had  suspended  them. 

8.-  O  mighty  poet !  Thy  works  are  not  as  those  of  other 
men,  simply  and  merely  great  works  of  art,  but  are  also  like  the 
phenomena  of  nature — like  the  sun  and  the  sea,  the  stars  and 
the  flowers,  like  frost  and  snow,  rain  and  dew,  hail-storm  and 
thunder. — which  are  to  be  studied  wi6h  entire  submission  of  our 


LIFE.  595 

own  faculties,  and  in  the  perfect  faith  that  in  them  there  can  be 
no  too  much  or  too  little,  nothing  useless  or  inert ;  but  that, 
the  further  we  press  in  our  discoveries,  the  more  we  shall  see 
proofs  of  design  and  self-supporting  arrangement  where  the 
careless  eye  had  seen  nothing  but  accident.  De  Quincey. 


197.  Life. 


''  'j\l~AN,"  says  sir  Thomas  Browne,  "is  a  noble  animal !  splen- 
i.TJL  did  in  ashes,  glorious  in  the  grave ;  solemnizing  nativities 
and  funerals  wifti  equal  lustre,  and  not  forgetting  ceremonies  of 
bravery  in  the  infamy  of  his  nature!"  Thus  spake  one  who 
mocketi  wliile  he  wept  at  man's  estate,  and  gracefully  tempered 
the  liigh  scotiings  of  philosophy  with  the  profound  compassion 
of  religion.  As  the  sini's  proudest  moment  is  his  latest,  and  as 
the  forest  puts  on  its  brightest  robe  to  die  in,  so  does  man  sum- 
mon ostentation  to  invest  the  hour  of  his  weakness,  and  pride 
survives  when  power  has  departed  :  and  what,  we  may  ask,  does 
this  instinctive  contempt  for  the  honors  of  the  dead  proclaim, 
except  the  utter  vanity  of  the  glories  of  the  living  ? — for  mean 
indeed  nuist  be  the  real  state  of  man,  and  false  the  vast  assump- 
tions of  his  lite,  when  the  poorest  pageantry  of  a  decent  burial 
strikes  upon  the  heart  as  a  mockery  of  helplessness. 

2.  Certain  it  is  that  pomp  chiefly  waits  upon  the  beginning 
and  the  end  of  life :  what  lies  between,  may  either  raise  a  sigh 
or  wake  a  laugh,  for  it  mostly  partakes  of  the  littleness  of  one 
and  the  sadness  of  the  other.  The  monuments  of  man's  blessed- 
ness and  of  man's  wretchedness  lie  side  by  side :  we  can  not 
look  for  the  one  without  discovering  the  other.  The  echo  of 
joy  is  the  moan  of  despair,  and  the  cry  of  anguish  is  stifled  in 
rejoicing.  To  make  a  monarch,  there  must  be  slaves ;  and  tliat 
one  may  triumph,  many  must  be  weak. 

3.  To  one  limiting  his  belief  within  the  bounds  of  his  observa- 
tion, and  "  reasoning  "  but  from  what  he  "  knows,"  the  condition 
of  man  presents  mysteries  which  thought  can  not  explain.  The 
dignity  and  the  destiny  of  man  seem  utterly  at  variance.  He 
turns  from  contem'plating  a  monument  of  genius  to  inquire  for 
Uie  genius  which  produced  it,  and  finds  that  while  the  work  haa 
survived,  the   workman  has  perished   for  age:*.     The  meanest 


596  NATIOxNAL    FIFTH    READKR. 

woik  of  man  outlives  the  noblest  work  of  God.  The  sculptures 
of  Phidias  endure,  where  the  dust  of  the  artist  has  vanished  from 
the  earth.     Man  can  immortalize  all  things  but  iiimself. 

4.  i>ut,  for  my  own  part,  I  can  not  help  thinking  that  our 
high  estimation  of  ourselves  is  the  grand  error  in  our  account. 
Surely,  it  is  argued,  a  creature  so  ingeniously  fashioned  and  so 
bountifully  furnished,  has  not  been  creiited  but  for  lofty  ends. 
l>ut  cast  your  eye  on  the  humblest  rose  of  the  garden,  and  it 
may  teach  a  wiser  lesson.  There  you  behold  contrivance  and 
ornament — in  every  leaf  the  finest  veins,  the  most  delicate  odor, 
and  a  per'fume  ex'quisite  beyond  imitation ;  yet  all  this  is  but 
a  toy — a  plaything  of  nature ;  and  surely  she  whose  resources 
are  so  boundless  that  upon  the  gaud  of  a  summer  day  she  can 
throw  away  such  lavish  wealth,  steps  not  beyond  her  commonest 
toil  when  she  forms  of  the  dust  a  living  man.  When  will  man 
learn  the  lesson  of  his  own  insignificance  ? 

5.  Immortal  man !  thy  blood  fiows  freely  and  fully,  and  thou 
standest  a  Napoleon  ;  thou  reclinest  a  Shakspeare ! — it  quickens 
its  movement,  and  thou  liest  a  parched  and  fretful  thing,  with 
thy  mind  funed  by  the  phantoms  of  fever  I — it  retards  its  action 
but  a  little,  and  thou  crawlest  a  crouching,  soulless  mass,  the 
bright  world  a  blank,  dead  vision  to  thine  eye.  Verily,  0  man, 
thou  art  a  glorious  and  godlike  being ! 

6.  Tell  life's  proudest  tale:  what  is  it?  A  few  attempts  suc- 
cessless ;  a  few  crushed  or  moldered  hopes ;  much  paltry  fret- 
ting; a  little  sleep,  and  the  story  is  concluded;  the  curtain 
falls — the  farce  is  over.  The  world  is  not  a  place  to  live  in,  but 
to  die  in.  It  is  a  house  that  has  but  two  chambers ;  a  lazar  and 
a  charnel — room  only  for  the  dying  and  the  dead.  There  is 
not  a  spot  on  the  broad  earth  on  which  man  can  plant  his  foot 
and  aflirm  wifh  confidence,  "  No  mortal  sleeps  beneafli !" 

7.  Seeing  then  that  these  things  are,  what  shall  we  say  ?  Shall 
we  exclaim  with  the  gay-hearted  Grecian,  ''  Drink  to-day,  for 
to-morrow  we  are  not?"  Shall  we  calmly  tloat  down  the  cur- 
rent, smiling  if  we  can,  silent  when  we  must,  lulling  cares  to 
sleep  by  the  music  of  gentle  enjoyment,  and  passing  dream-like 
through  a  land  of  dreams  ?  No !  dream-like  as  is  our  life,  there 
is  in  it  one  reiility — our  duty.  Let  us  cling  to  tliat,  and  distress 
Diav  overwhelm,  but  can  not  disturb  us — may  destroy,  but  can  not 


ELK(JY    l.V    A    CDUNTUV    <  IILKCllYAKl).  5J>7 

hurt  us:  the  bitterness  of  earthly  things  and  the  shortness  of 
earthly  life  will  cease  to  be  evils,  and  begin  to  be  blessings. 

H.  B.  Wallac 


198.  Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  CHURCH-y\Ri 

1.  rpHE  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 

J-   The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 

The  plowman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 

And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

2.  Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight, 

And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 
Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 
And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds ; 

3.  Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower 

The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 
Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower, 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

4.  Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade, 

Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  moldering  heap, 
Each  in  his  narrow  cell  forever  laid, 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

5.  The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn. 

The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed, 
The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn. 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

0.  For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care ; 
No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return. 
Or  climb  his  knees,  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

7.  Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield. 

Their  furrow  6ft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke : 
How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield ! 

How  bow'd  the  woods  beneafh  their  sturdy  stroke! 

8.  Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 

Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure; 

Nor  Grandeur  hear  wifli  a  disdainful  smile 

The  short  and  simple  annuls  of  the  poor. 


6\)b  NAIIO.NAI-    IIITll     KIADilK. 

9.  Tlie  b5ast  of  liomldry,  tliu  })omp  of  power, 

And  all  that  beauty,  all  tiiat  wealth,  e'er  gave, 
Await  alike  the  inevitable  hour : 

The  paflis  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

10.  Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault, 

If  Memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise, 
Where  through  the  long-dravi^n  aisle  and  fretted  vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

11.  Can  storied  urn,  or  animated  bust, 

Baek  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath  ? 
Can  Honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust. 

Or  Flattery  soothe  the  dull,  cold  ear  of  death  ? 

12.  Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire : 
Hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  sway'd. 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre  : 

13.  But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page, 

Rich  wifli  the  spoils  of  time,  did  ne'er  unroll ; 
Chill  Penury  repress'd  their  noble  rage. 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

14.  Full  many  a  gem,  of  purest  ray  serene, 

The  dark,  unfathom'd  caves  of  ocean  bear ; 
Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

15.  Some  village  Hampden,  that  wifh  dauntless  breast 

The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood, — 
Some  mute,  inglorious  Milton, — here  may  rest; 
Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

10.  The  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command, 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise. 
To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land. 

And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes, 

IV.  Their  lot  forbade:  nor  circumscribed  alone 

Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined ; 
Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind; 


ELEGY    IN    A    COUNTRY    CIlUKCll-YAUD.  Cli9 

18.  The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hicle» 

To  quench  the  bhishes  of  ingenuous  shauie, 
Or  heap  tlie  shrine  of  hixury  and  pride 
With  iucense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 

19.  Far  from  the  maddening;  ci'owd's  i<xnoble  strife, 

Their  sober  wishes  never  leariTd  to  stray  ; 
Along  the  cool,  sequester'd  vale  of  life 

They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

20    Yet  even  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect. 
Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 
Wifh  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  deck'd, 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

2\    Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  the  unlettered  Muse, 
The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply  ; 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews. 
That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

22    For  who,  to  dumb  forggtfulness  a  prey. 

This  pleasing,  anxious  being  e'er  resign'd. 
Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind  ? 

2.0.  On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies. 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires ; 
Even  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  nature  cries, 
Even  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

24.  For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  the  nnhonor'd  dead, 

Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate, 
If  'chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led, 

Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate,— ' 

25.  llaply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 

"  Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn 
Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away, 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 

'■^e,  "  There,  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech 

That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high, 
His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 


()00  NAIMDN/VI.    KIKIH     KKADKK. 

27.  "  Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 

Muttering  his  wayward  fancies,  would  he  rove  ; 
Now  drooping,  woful-wan,  like  one  forlorn, 

Or  crazed  with  care,  or  cross'd  in  hopeless  love. 

28.  "One  morn  I  raiss'd  him  on  the  accustomVl  hill, 

Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favorite  tree : 
Another  came, — nor  y§t  beside  the  rill. 
Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood,  was  he : 

29    The  next,  with  dirges  due,  in  sad  array. 

Slow  through  the  churchway  path  we  saw  him  borne: 
Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay 
Graved  on  the  stone  beneafh  yon  aged  thorn." 

THE  EPITAPH. 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  Earth, 
a  youth  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown  i 

Fair  Science  frown'd  not  on  his  humdle  birth, 
And  Melancholy  mark'd  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere. 
Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send  : 

He  gave  to  misery — all  he  had — a  tear. 

He  gained  from  heaven  ('twas  all  he  wish'd)  a  friend. 

No  further  seek  his  merits  to  disclose. 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose,) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God.         Gray 


the  end 


YB  36816 


™  TO  oLt^^^  USE 


'Hi^i-,''o'].YI' 


